


WWE: World Wide Espionage Case Study: The Shield

by Damnbrose



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Espionage, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Canon Divergence, Corporate Epsionage, Domestic, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Espionage, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M, Mission Fic, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-02-03 17:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 152,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12753243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damnbrose/pseuds/Damnbrose
Summary: The newest stable in World Wide Espionage’s ranks comprises of Agents Reigns, Rollins, and Ambrose.Brought together, they aim to become the best damn stable WWE has ever seen, by any means necessary. If they must become brothers in arms or otherwise, so be it.Failure is not an option.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so like this fic isn’t meant to be realistic, like in the least. I just thought one day, “Hey, what if The Shield were actual spies/mercenaries?” and my brain absolutely would not leave me alone about it. I tried my best to keep this as researched as I can, but really I wanted to explore these characters in this AU because I am if nothing a character driven writer. This AU will have some loosely based points that will correlate with stuff that’s happened in the WWE because I’m a sucker for stuff like that, but mostly I want to write about how covert tactical operatives can also be domestic as fuck. I want to write real-ish people here, as real as I can in this AU, and I hope I’ve accomplished that.
> 
> Ok, enough dilly-dallying and trying to explain my AU away, let’s do this.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, this story starts around 2012, so everyone is the ages they were at that time.

***

            “This is Architect, calling in. Big Dog, Fringe, do you copy? Over.”

            Agent Ambrose rolls his eyes at the slightly nasally tone droning in his ear through his earpiece. First mission together and this Rollins guy is already acting like he’s the leader of everything. Ambrose presses the keys of the computer with a little more force than he needs to. He let’s out a hiss of joy when several camera feeds pop up onto the screen. “This is Fringe, in position. Over.” He says, just hardly tacking on the last word.

            Agent Reigns’ voice rumbles into his ear not a moment later. “Big Dog, in position, over.”

            Rollins’ voice crackles back at them. “Fringe, you need to get that faux camera feed up and operational in ninety seconds, starting now. Once the camera feed is up Big Dog, you will have another ninety seconds to apprehend the target and decommission him. Understood, over?”

            Ambrose can’t resist. “We all read the debriefing, Sethie,” he teases, typing furiously away. He taps his booted foot against the floor as he types, easily breaking into the camera feed and supplicating his own taken from earlier footage. Child’s play, really.

            The hardly restrained sigh makes Ambrose’s mouth split into the smile. “Fringe, you know as well as I do that while under operations we are to address each other-”

            Ambrose rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, by our Field Names, extra layer of protection, blah blah blah, don’t get your tac-vest in a bunch.” His hand hovers over the enter key and his mouth cracks another smile. “You ready, Big Dog?”

            Agent Reigns just grunts his affirmative, and Ambrose nods, agreeing.

            “You have one hundred and twenty seconds…starting…now!” Ambrose smiles, clicking the enter key after only sixty seconds. The camera feeds flicker for a moment, and he watches as Big Dog goes to do what he does best. He’s seen tons of videos of the big Samoan kicking ass and taking names before they were ever teamed up, and hell, he’s never gonna get tired of seeing it.

            The singular guard in the hallway doesn’t stand a chance against Agent Reigns. For such a big guy, he sure as hell moves a lot quicker and quieter than you would think. Ambrose watches with a little sick sense of glee as Reigns takes down the guard from behind before he can even lift his gun up to defend himself. Too bad he has to get out of here and can’t watch the rest of the fighting. Maybe next mission, since this one seems to be going without a hitch. He types a few other keys before pressing enter, initializing a program that will reset the computer without a single trace of him being there. After ninety seconds anyway. He stands and removes his flash drive from the computer before carefully making his way out of the room. “Remind me again why Punk just wants us to decommission the guy instead of off him?” He asks idly, slipping a hand into the pocket of his tac pants and pressing a thumb against the cube inside.

            Reigns sounds hardly out of breath when he murmurs an answer. “Make a point?”

            Agent Rollins doesn’t sound nearly as calm. “Fringe, if you could have let Big Dog in earlier, why didn’t-”

            “He’s not gonna need the whole hundred and twenty seconds anyway,” Ambrose argues back, pressing carefully into the stairwell and climbing up towards the roof. By his calculations, he should have another one hundred and eighty seconds to meet Reigns at the getaway vehicle. “Are ya, Big Dog?” He finishes his thought as he pushes through the rooftop door and flips the cube over in his pocket before removing his hand.

            “No.” Reigns responds. “Heading out, over.”

            Ambrose smiles, jumping up and down on the balls of his feet before jolting into a full sprint. As he reaches the edge of the rooftop he jumps, rolling as he lands against the next rooftop and popping up only to continue running. He likes escaping across rooftops better than on the ground, something about vaulting himself over buildings with the wind in his face really makes his heart pump and his brain clear. The crackling voice in his ear however, does not. “It’s not our job to question what Punk asks of us,” Rollins says. “He knows what’s right, we’re just here to do a job. Over.”

            Ambrose vaults another building before shimming down a fire escape. “Boooring~” he says as he lands on the ground next to the getaway vehicle, a black Escalade. Not very inconspicuous, but at least it blends into the alleyway a little. He slips into the back of the car and nods at the driver who ignores him. Rude. He barely gets the chance to crack his neck all the way before Agent Reigns slips into the vehicle and it pulls out of the alleyway, as calmly as anything. Reigns is still panting a little, and Ambrose doesn’t blame him. Beating up two guys in like ninety seconds then running full tilt to get the hell out of dodge can take a lot out of a guy. Ambrose offers a gloved fist over to Reigns, blinking in expectation. Reigns just gives him a look and lifts his own fist, making Ambrose smile. “Good mission.” The messy haired blonde says, bumping his fist against Reigns’.

            Reigns just makes this sort of snorting noise that sounds like a scoff, but he does respond. “Good mission.”

            “Big Dog, Fringe, return to base. Over.” Rollins’ voice says over the commlink.

            Ambrose rolls his eyes and shoves his hand into his pocket again to press against the little cube inside, flicking one of the buttons and flipping it over in his palm. He snickers at Reigns before answering. “Yes Moooom.”

            Reigns actually lets out a chuckle at that.

            Rollins doesn’t. He just growls. “Agents of Sierra, Hotel, India, Echo, Lima, Delta, returning to base, over.”

            A voice responds in all their commlinks. “Roger. Agents of Shield returning to base.”

 

***

            “Why is it so hard for you to follow protocol?” Rollins asks almost as soon as Ambrose and Reigns make it back into the World Wide Espionage’s main building. Looks like he was waiting for them.

            “Why is it so hard for you not to?” Ambrose asks, unable to walk away from the confrontation. The operation had gone without a hitch, so what was the big deal?

            For the guy who’s the smallest of the three of them, you wouldn’t think Rollins was by the way he gets up into Ambrose’s face. “Protocol keeps operatives safe and the mission successful.”

            “And I repeat…boooring.” Ambrose replies, itching his right ear with a pinky finger. A smirk pulls at his lips as he watches Rollins physically trying not to burst a blood vessel.

            A voice cuts them out of their ‘argument’. “Boys, I know you’re a new team and all but can we save the fighting for when an operation actually goes sour?”

            If you saw Phil Brooks on the street, you wouldn't imagine him as the leader of an elite trio of highly trained covert operatives. With dark hair almost buzzed to his skull and a piercing in his lip that moves with his smirk, it's no wonder he has the codename, ‘Punk'. He struts towards the three men, hands stuffed into his pockets. “How’s it goin’, Boss?” Ambrose asks, completely abandoning his attention from Rollins just because he knows it’ll rile the guy up. He doesn’t miss the narrowing of Rollins’ eyes or how his hands tightening into fists at his sides. Ambrose only _just_ resists the urge to smile; this is too damn easy.

            Punk grins and gestures at them with open arms. “Job was successful boys, you’ve officially completed a mission for WWE.” He crosses his arms then, shifting his weight. His brows lower over his eyes as he levels a look at the three of them.  “The higher ups are pretty impressed with how smoothly and quickly you all handled that operation. They’ve got their eyes on you now, so your teamwork and communication need to be in top form.”

            Ambrose feels Rollins shoot him a look out of the corner of his eye, but the tawny haired man resolutely ignores it. He nods at Punk to continue.

            Punk’s lips stretch into another grin. “I told them I knew what I was doing when I picked you three, but hey, you know higher ups, always gotta be ‘sure’ of stuff.” Punk gestures with his head for them to follow as he turns, and just like a good little boy scout, Rollins immediately follows after him, keeping pace as Punk continues to speak. Ambrose glances at Reigns, who meets his look before they both follow after the other two. “Since they were so impressed, they’re gonna put you three in a sort of-uh-trial period.” Punk sneers a little bit when he says it, looking as though he’s barely resisting rolling his eyes.

            The World Wide Espionage building is bigger than it looks, with levels upon levels underground. Everything from arms rooms to barracks, to gyms and offices, their company has it all. Only the best for what the Espionage business has to offer. Despite the sheer size and layout of the building, Punk seems to have no trouble navigating through the hallways as he leads his boys to, God knows where. “What does the trial period entail?” Rollins asks quickly, hanging on Punk’s every word.

            Punk sighs as they walk. “From what I understand, you’ll be placed on several operations of varying types over the course of a couple of months or so-again never know with the higher ups could be longer-” The four approach a door, and Punk easily pulls a badge out of his pocket and scans it underneath the light on the keypad. With a quick punch of a code and a scan of his thumbprint, the door opens with a hiss and the four continue walking. “And you’ll be evaluated on the success of those operations as a team, as well as an individual.”

            Ambrose frowns. “This is bullshit. If they’re just gonna try to throw us out in the first months anyway, why the hell even bring us up to WWE?”

            Punk finally stops walking, and Ambrose only just stops himself from running into the back of Rollins. He glances at the door they’ve stopped in front of, and the words ‘CM PUNK’ are etched into the glass. Said man sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Trust me, I find it as annoying as you do. If you didn’t have any potential you wouldn’t have been brought up. Every operative goes through a trial period, especially those in a Stable.”

            Rollins nods, “To ensure that they _can_ work as a Stable or be better as a singular operative.”

            Punk points with a nod of his own. “Exactly. If the trial period goes on without a hitch, then the Shield will be the best Stable in WWE.”

            “Damn straight.” Reigns finally speaks.

            With another badge, code and thumbprint, the door to Punk’s office opens, and he gestures for the other men inside.

            The three operatives had been in Punk’s office several times before, and it hasn’t changed much after any of the times. The pristine white walls with equally pristine furniture looks far too sterile for a man like Punk.

            Dean watches his superior closely, and while the sure and confident stride tips him off that the man knows his way around his office, the lack of anything too personal decorating the room shows his nature. He’s a field operative through and through. Too personal and you can give yourself away to strangers, which in this business, is quite a big no-no.

            “A lot of people are in the sphere of thinking where being teammates stops outside of operations and training.” Punk says, tracing a finger lightly across his desk as he steps around it. “I, however am of a different realm of thought than others. I believe the most successful stables, are those that fight together, train together, travel together, _live_ together.” The man then leans against his desk, his arms crossed. “Do you understand where I'm heading?”

            Surprisingly Reigns is the first to answer. “You want us to live together.” He says flatly, quirking a brow just a hair. Ambrose figures it's the most emotive he's been all day. The blonde frowns, with how controlling and annoying Rollins had been just during their first mission, he can't imagine what it must be like to _live_ with the guy. Sure, the three of them work together well and they were the most compatible when it came to their varying strengths, but working together and living together are two entirely different beings. Then again, that was Punk’s point, wasn’t it?

            “What about keeping personal and professional lives separate?” Ambrose asks. “I thought that was another layer of protection for the agency and ourselves.”

            Punk’s brows raise and his lips twitch in a smirk. “I want you guys to be more than _just_ another Stable. I want you to be brothers, in arms or otherwise. You wanna get far in WWE? I've found no better way than this.”

            Rollins’ clears his throat, shifting his weight. “Nexus―”

            “The reason Nexus didn't end up working out is due to the fact that we stopped thinking of each other as family, and more like they were my lackeys.” Punk sharply interrupts, his gaze snapping to him. Rollins’ mouth audibly clicks shut. Ambrose chuckles, he looks like a kid who just got scolded for interrupting when it wasn't his turn to speak. Punk sighs and runs a hand through his hair again. “Look, I learned my lesson with Nexus, and I'm passing that knowledge onto you boys. I've seen this work, and if it doesn't…well…I hope to see you all become great singular operatives.”

            Ambrose has to admit, in it's prime, Nexus―with Punk at the lead―was nigh unstoppable. There was nothing anyone could throw at them that they couldn't overcome. They seemed like the perfect stable…until they weren't. Ambrose had heard all the stories, the rumors about why Nexus had disbanded, but it was all speculation, information above his pay grade and all that. Never bothered him overmuch however. He didn't get involved in Espionage for the money.

            “So the trial period never gets mentioned in Developmental so that no one chickens out,” Rollins mutters, frowning. Why the hell should he even care? He was at the very top of their group of Developmental operatives, he wasn’t going to chicken out for shit. Ambrose grumbles, shifting his weight back and forth. He wasn’t quitting over something idiotic like this. “What happens if we fail the trial period as a team?”

            Punk chuckles. “I figured you’d ask that. Another trial period as a singular operative.” He answers easily, his lips pulled tightly into a smile.

            “And what if we fail that?” Reigns asks, crossing his arms over his chest. Ambrose sees the flex in his biceps, the stiffness in his shoulders. Big Dog is starting to lose his cool.

            Punk’s smile only pulls tighter. “You know what happens.”

 

            No one dares say it aloud, but they all know what’s being said here.

 

            You fail, and you disappear.

 

            No one ever asks how.

 

            Punk’s face lifts however, and he pushes himself out of his lean and strides towards the three. “I wouldn’t let that worry you boys.” He says, and gestures with open arms, as if offering a hug. None of the operatives move. “If you three don't want to do this my way fine, we’ll walk out of here and continue on the trial period and see where we go, no questions asked.” Punk levels a stare at the three men before him. “There is just so much potential in all of you, Stable or not, and I would hate for it to go to waste.”

            Reigns, Ambrose and Rollins all trade glances with one another from their respective places in the room. Ambrose’s stare lingers on Rollins and vice versa. In the intense stares, they seem to come to an understanding. The three of them all came here―albeit for different reasons―to achieve something. Whether they like it or not, for the time being, they're teammates, and they're gonna be the best damn Stable in the entirety of WWE.

            “Let’s do it.” Reigns says, leveling Punk with the same intense stare.

 

            Punk smiles with his teeth now.

  
            “Dean, Seth, Roman. Pack your bags, you're officially roommates.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So these first couple of chapters are going to be dialog heavy and fairly expositional just due to the fact that I'm trying to do a lot of world building all at once so we don't stay in expositional land forever and we can get to the stuff that actually matters: The Story. So thanks for your patience!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys spend their first day together and honestly it could've gone worse?

***

            Dean almost figured that since they were on trial period and all, they’d all get tossed to a tiny offsite apartment or barrack with barely enough room for the three of them to move around in, let alone be comfortable in. He’s done it before, and he can do it again.

            Color him surprised when higher ups grant them a reasonably sized apartment off the WWE premises. It ain’t no penthouse, but the three of them have pick of their own rooms, so that’s something. “How much surveillance you think this place has?” He asks idly, glancing in room corners as the three of them separately inspect the apartment.

            Seeing his fellow operatives in street clothes is something he’s going to have to get used to. Sure he’s seen it before when they were in Developmental, but that was when their street clothes were assigned to them, outside of that is a whole ‘nother animal. These are personal clothing choices each of them have made, and seeing Rollins in a snapback and a sweatshirt with a band name he doesn’t recognize on it is strange. The pants―Dean can’t even rightfully call them jeans―that look tight enough to cut off blood circulation are even more so. He files those little pieces of information away for later.

            Roman look even bigger than he normally does in just a long sleeve shirt and jeans, and Dean could barely help rolling his eyes when Rollins unabashedly gave him a tight lipped look upon seeing him in his tank top, leather jacket, and jeans. How the hell he even passed Facial Cues in Developmental is beyond Dean. He’d be terrible at a real interrogation.

            “Probably less than we think but more than it looks,” Roman replies, trailing out of the hallway where he presumably just staked claim on one of the three rooms. Dean hasn’t even been down the hallway yet, more interested in the living room and an actual kitchen. A room is a room. How long had it been since he had an _actual_ kitchen?

            Dean blinks at Reigns, lost as to what he’s talking about, until his brain catches up. Right, he asked. “Damn, no parties then, huh?” He asks, even though he’s not planning on throwing any of those here regardless. That would require friends and getting too personal, and he’s not a fan of either of those.

            “Bummer,” Roman says, and it only irks Dean slightly that he can’t tell whether or not the man is kidding. He’d be way better at an interrogation. “Seth claimed the room at the end of the hallway, so you and I are across from one another.” Reigns adds, surveying the living room like Dean had done.

            Dean leans against the counter and watches him, one of his hands reaching into his jean pocket and flicking at his cube. Squared, confident shoulders, but not a particularly wide stance or long stride for a man Reigns’ size. Indicative of someone who just within the past few years really started to grow and be comfortable and confident within his body―

            “There’s only one bathroom,” Rollins announces, stepping out of the hallway at last. It snaps Dean out of his profiling, and he glances at Rollins. From what Dean can tell by the look on his face, he isn’t too happy.

            Dean shrugs. “So?”

            Rollins’ face pulls tight. “There’s three of us.”

            “We had communal bathrooms, Seth,” Roman replies flatly, and Dean’s glad he’s not the only one who doesn’t see a problem.

            “At least with communal bathrooms we could all use them at once,” the man gripes, crossing his arms over his chest. Christ, is there nothing this guy won’t complain about?

            “What, does Sethie need an extra long shower in the morning?” Dean teases.

            Rollins doesn’t seem to want to dignify the dig with a response, doesn’t stop him from glaring at Dean though, whose smile is all teeth and doesn’t reach his eyes. When he does finally speak, it’s with a measured calmness that Dean can tell he doesn’t feel in the slightest. “We need to be able to work together, Ambrose.”

            Dean removes his hands from his pockets and crosses them, giving him the most pointed look he can manage. “Look man, if you think I'm gonna sit down and spill my guts out to you guys like we're in group therapy―like singing kumbaya or some shit―then you're outta your fuckin’ mind.”

            “Then how about acting like a fucking adult for once in your goddamn life?” the half blonde snaps right back and Dean actually smiles because _there’s_ the glimpse of the guy who lives underneath the goody-two-shoes facade.

            And oh, he just can’t resist poking at the bear. “I’m older than you, cupcake.”

            Rollins' face flushes red―from anger or embarrassment either is fine for Dean―and opens his mouth, but Roman interrupts. “Go put your stuff away,” He says quietly to Dean, jerking his head towards the hallway.

            “Alright _Mom_ , I’ll play along,” Dean replies, his smile all teeth again. He saunters past Roman to grab for his backpack and the two duffel bags he tossed on the love seat in the living room. He didn't have much at his old place―didn't really have a need for a lot of stuff―so he just packed up the essentials. Judging from the several suitcases both Roman and Seth had brought, he’s the only one.

            Down the hallway, there's only two doors open, and since he passes the bathroom on the right, he figures the next door is the one to his new room. Pressing the door further open with his hip, Dean surveys the space. It looks average enough. A bed, a dresser, a nightstand. Nothing too personal, something that anyone in the world could have. That works for him. He tosses one of his duffel bags carelessly to the ground―it's full of his clothes―while he sets his backpack and second duffel bag more gingerly on the bed.

            He doesn’t bother hanging his clothes up in the closet or stuffing them in the dresser. They’ll make their way there eventually. Instead Dean reaches for one of the duffel bags and slowly pulls several smaller cases out of it. He arranges them onto the bed next to him before extending an arm towards his backpack, dragging it towards him before unzipping one of the smaller pockets. He hands find two rattling bottles and he places them on the nightstand next to the lamp right side up.

            With those situated, he reaches for the first case and flicks it open, revealing one of his pistols. The Smith and Wesson Shield isn’t the favorite among his pistols―that’s strictly reserved for his M1911―but with it’s small size and magazine capacity, it’ll work for a concealed bedroom weapon. With practiced movements, the tawny haired man clicks the magazine free and sets it aside before sliding the chamber back to make sure it’s free of bullets. The second case has all of his cleaning supplies in it, and as he disassembles and cleans the pistol, he can feel his awareness start to soften. Muscle memory and repetition starts to take over as he presses a rod into the barrel to clean out any gunk. His guns never have anything caked in them with how often he cleans them, but it’s part of the process, so he does it anyway.

            His awareness comes back when he reloads the magazine and cocks it, since a knock to his door sounds at the same time. “Yeah,” He says, clicking on the safety and reaching for one of the microfiber cloths to idly run it over the metal of the gun.

            There’s hesitation on the other side of the door before it opens just enough to reveal Roman, who barely pokes his head in. He’s quiet for a long moment, watching Dean even though the man isn’t looking back. His storm grey eyes flicker to the gun before focusing back to the man holding it. “Hungry?” He asks.

            Dean hands stop for a second before he looks up at―well his roommate. “You making something?”

            Roman shakes his head in lieu of a answer. Dean raises a brow, which makes him sigh quietly. “Seth asked me to ask you if you were hungry.”

            Dean snorts and puts the cloth back in the cleaning case. “He got you playing middle man already?”

            Roman face goes flat, well, flatter than normal and Dean wouldn’t think that was possible if he didn’t just see it. “Don’t act like you weren’t antagonizing him.”

            Dean snorts again and nods. He was. With a sigh, he sets his pistol casually onto the bed. Not like it’s not in a safe place with three highly trained operatives living here. He can stand to leave it until he gets some food in him. He stretches as he stands and he doesn’t miss the little flick of Roman’s eyes as he does. Hmmm. “I’m surprised the guy has the patience to cook with how much he bitches about literally everything.”

            Roman’s brows pinch just slightly. “Be nice.” He says, before retreating out the door.

            “I’ll be nice as soon as he pulls his head out of his own ass and does me the same courtesy.”

            Roman doesn't dignify him with a response, and Dean didn't really expect him to in the first place. He lets out a sigh as one hand wanders to his collarbone, tapping on it idly as he decides what to do. On the one hand, Rollins is making food, on the other, there is the potential of him spitting or doing something else shitty to it. Not that Dean actually thinks Rollins is that petty, but hey, he's been wrong about things before.

 

            In the kitchen, Seth casually alternates between stirring two pots, only half paying attention to the pasta and sauce inside each. It’s clear that this apartment hadn’t been inhabited for a while judging by the thin layer of dust covering most everything in the place, as well as the nearly empty fridge and cupboards. A few boxes of pasta and sauce were about the only things Seth found that even sounded remotely appetizing and hadn’t expired yet.

            The hand not gently stirring the boiling noodles holds his WWE standard issue phone, which scrolls around a map of the area around his new home. _Their_ new home, he reminds himself bitterly, flicking his thumb a little harder than probably necessary against the touch screen. He stops it before it roams too far out of their area, and glances dismally at the gym selection. Sure, he could go to the WWE headquarters and use one of their several gyms, but he had spent far too much time there lately getting prepared for their first operation. The sterile white walls had never been his favorite, and he would rather actually work out in a space that wasn’t infested with highly trained operatives all hours of the day.

            If he could find a Crossfit box to go to that would be perfect, though he highly doubts the classes and WODs would be anywhere near the standard he’s gotten used to, but Christ that would be better than spending more time in the apartment, right?

            Ok, so he’s making plans to avoid his new roommates, so what? Punk didn't say that they had to spend _literally_ every waking moment together, so he's not technically disobeying an order, right?

            He sighs bitterly and sets his phone down on the counter, abandoning the idea at least for now. God, that sounds pathetic even to him. He can deal with living with his stablemates, can’t he? Well, maybe Reigns, but Ambrose? He’s an entirely different animal.

 _Literally_ , Seth thinks with a chuckle, switching his attention to the sauce. Not the best dinner ever, but it'll work for tonight. Maybe he can convince Reigns to go shopping with him some time in the near future? It’s hard to plan for anything when at the drop of a hat you could be called in for an operation. With them being on a ‘trial period’ it’s hard to tell what the hell the higher ups are even planning to do with them.

            Reigns appears in the entryway of the kitchen, and if it weren’t for his training, Seth probably would have jumped at the sudden appearance of the Samoan. “He comin’?” He asks idly, glancing at the oven timer.

            “I don’t know,” Reigns says, hovering close to the wall and watching as Seth continues to stir.

            The shorter man furrows his brow and looks at him.“How do you not know?”

            Reigns shrugs and keeps watching, not making eye contact when he speaks next. “I told him you asked me to ask him. He didn’t give a definitive answer.”

            Seth blinks. “If he doesn’t want this he can find his own fucking food,” he scowls, the oven timer finally signalling that the pasta should be ready. “Do you like sauce with your pasta?” He adds, the question coming out a little sharper than he had originally intended it to. Something about Ambrose just gets to him.

            “He’ll stop antagonizing you if you stop reacting to it.” Reigns answers instead, and Seth once again gives him a look as he takes the pot off the burner.

            “What, like a bully on the playground?” He snarks, setting the oven timer for a few extra minutes so that the sauce can finish. He gives it a quick stir before grabbing for the pot lid so he can drain the pasta over the sink. He can feel the Samoan’s eyes on him as he does. It’s a little unnerving, the silver gaze quiet but intense. Oddly enough however, Seth notes that outside of their superiors, Reigns doesn’t really make eye contact with anyone unless absolutely necessary.

            “Yes I like sauce with my pasta.” He says, finally pushing himself out of the entryway and around Seth, opening cupboards and drawers.

            Seth frowns as he carefully drains the noodles, feeling the steam billow up into his face and he’s damn glad his hair is tied up otherwise it would have turned into a frizzy mess by now. “If you find plates and silverware you should probably at least rinse them. Who knows how long they’ve been in this place.” He says, turning back when he’s satisfied that the pasta is drained enough. He sees Reigns standing next to the stove with three plates and enough silverware in hand for all three of them.

            He blinks down at the dishes, then flicks his eyes back up at Seth, then back at the dishes like he just understood what Seth’s trying to tell him. “Right.” He says, and shuffles around Seth again to get to the sink.

            Seth plonks the pot down on an unused burner, resisting the urge to usher Reigns out of the kitchen and just do everything himself. It definitely would be much easier that way, but Punk’s words ring in his head, and despite how much he doesn’t like this, he’s going to have to get used to it. So he just says, “Thank you,” instead and stirs at the sauce again.

            Ambrose finally makes his grand entrance just as the timer goes off again and Reigns finishes rinsing the plates and silverware. It’s not truly _that_ grand, but he strolls into the kitchen looking as though he doesn’t have a care in the world, plopping down at the round table without much ceremony. Seth grits his teeth. It’s like he’s expecting dinner to be made for him without doing a damn thing in return. He’s got half a mind to just serve him and Reigns everything and leave Ambrose to fend for himself, but he _did_ make a lot of pasta, probably more than he and Reigns could eat alone, and he fucking hates waste. “It’s serve yourself,” he says instead, easily taking the plate and silverware Reigns hands him.

            “Something tomato-y?” Ambrose asks, still not moving from his seat at the table.

            “Pasta.” Reigns replies softly. When Seth glances up at the Samoan, his eyes are glued to Ambrose, giving him a look with his eyes that the two-tone haired man can't quite read. Ambrose shrugs and swings himself upwards, standing and rolling his shoulders slightly.

 

            With a bit of awkward shuffling between three men all over six foot and two hundred pounds, they all eventually are seated at the table, Seth and Dean across from one another with Roman adjacent, and the tension in the air is so thick it's almost hard to breathe.

            Just as both Dean and Seth reach to dig in, Roman’s head tilts down slightly and his eyes slip shut. Both Dean and Seth give each other dubious and mildly alarmed glances from across the table, but Roman doesn't say anything out loud. He just sits there for about a minute or so, before his eyes flutter open and he reaches for his fork to start eating.

            With one more wary glance at one another, Dean and Seth start slowly eating too. Religion isn't something that's covered too much in training or Developmental, even though all three know it can be used against a potential target. Roman just showed a piece of his personal hand to them, and of course he did it without saying a damn word. Typical Reigns.

            There’s little conversation between the three of them, just the sound of forks scraping on plates and a little bit of obnoxious slurping from Dean, like he just can’t help but slurp up the last bit of pasta from his fork into his mouth. It gets him a glance from Seth more than once, but he just smiles with his cheeks stuffed up with noodles and Seth rolls his eyes when he looks away.

            Roman goes back for seconds before Dean and Seth are even finished with their first serving, piling the rest of the pasta on his plate when his stablemates quietly decline his offering to share the rest.

            More minutes pass with utensil scraping on plates and avoided eye contact, until all three of them are finished. The tense quiet escalates to almost unbearable levels as the three of them sit there, none of them really willing to be the first to move away. Dean finally clears his throat.

            “For what it's worth Rollins, it didn’t taste like shit…...so thanks I guess.” He says, not looking up as he speaks.

            Seth glances up at him and then back down at his plate.

            “You're welcome.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I've neglected to mention that I will be updating this fic every other week. I'm doing this because I do in fact have a set amount of chapters already written, but I am a SLOW writer, so I'm trying to give myself a time buffer so that I can stay ahead and have a consistent update schedule for you all!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing says, 'Teamwork' like getting called into work in the middle of the night with no notice.

***

       Much to Seth’s surprise, Reigns volunteers to clean up the kitchen, since Seth was the one who cooked. Even more surprising, he manages to somehow convince Ambrose to help him. Seth thanks the Samoan, who just grunts as he rolls up his sleeves and flicks the sink on. They don't have dishwasher detergent, and Seth feels a little bad letting them hand wash everything.

       He smirks as Ambrose sighs heavily when Roman hands him a plate and he begins to dry it with a small washcloth—ok, maybe Seth doesn't feel _that_ bad.

       

       If they were a normal trio of people living together, with dinner finished and the dishes washed, maybe the three of them would sit down and watch TV together, maybe have a drink or two. Or maybe the three of them would go out for drinks and party a little. They’re all three of them in their prime, so who would blame them for wanting to party it up?

       Except they're not a normal trio of roommates. Instead they're three highly trained covert operatives who can't get drunk just in case an operation comes through. They can't even seem to sit down and relax together. In the little amounts of free time they were granted in Developmental they sure as hell didn't spend it trying to bond or strike up friendships, let alone with each other. To Seth it feels like they've skipped an ever important step when it comes to roommates: you usually know at least a little about them before you move in together. Sure, the three of them know each other's schedules fairly well since each of them followed essentially the same one for a year or so, but now outside of missions, they're free to do what they please. The freedom makes Seth a little anxious, like he should be _doing_ something, something productive towards his job, instead of trying to decide the best way to avoid having to spend “quality” time with his teammates but still keep to Punk’s instructions. It's still too early to turn in, his internalized clock too trained to just drop off to sleep right now, but now he's just sitting on the love seat the living room, watching Ambrose cycle through TV channels at a speed that is impossible to even decipher what's on, and he kind of wants to die. He knows it's only day one, and the more they cohabitate with one another the easier this casual interaction will become, but the thought of having to deal with this almost every day for the foreseeable future—again—kind of makes him want to die.

       After the third cycle through channels, Ambrose seems to finally settle on something after Reigns grunts lowly under his breath. It's some documentary on Animal Planet about the ocean and as a shark swims by on screen Seth flicks his eyes away, his heart rate picking up slightly. After a few minutes of glancing at the screen then quickly looking away again, he finally pushes himself to stand. Ambrose and Reigns both tear their attention away from the TV at the sudden movement, and Seth clears his throat and swallows. “I'm going to my room.”

       He doesn't even wait for a response before he’s practically speeding out of the room. The second he's out of his roommates’ eyesight he can practically _feel_ the tenseness drain right out of him. Inside his room he closes the door behind him and leans against the wood, sliding his hands down his face and just resisting the urge to do the same with his body against the door. “Day One,” he says through a wry chuckle, shaking his head and staring at the ceiling in disbelief. “It’s only Day One.”

 

***

       Roman’s barely watching whatever Dean had put on earlier, instead using the time to think over the events of the day. It’s only been half a day really, and already things aren’t looking good. Roman glances at Dean out of the corner of his eyes. The messy haired man’s face doesn’t give much away, and neither does the bouncing of his knee, because Roman knows that that’s just something that Dean _does_ . It’s not really indicative of anything, doesn’t give anything away and let Roman know what Dean’s feeling without asking. The Samoan knows he’s not the best at reading people—more the other way around than anything—and he doesn’t really need to since that’s more Dean’s area than his own. Nevertheless, hopefully the more time the three of them spend together, the better they’ll get to know one another. That’s what’s important here, that’s what Punk asked. Roman doesn’t need to be good at reading people, he needs to be good at reading his teammates. So he sits, half watching the television and half watching Dean. “If you’re trying to sneak glances at me you’re terrible at it,” said man suddenly speaks, and Roman blinks. Well he wasn’t exactly entirely _trying_ to be secretive about it.

       Dean turns his attention away from the TV for the first time since Roman asked him to stop flipping channels around and just pick something, and from the downturn of his eyebrows, he doesn’t look amused. Roman shrugs his crossed arms and turns his gaze back to the television. He hears Dean let out a drawn out sigh, and the Samoan looks at him out of the corner of his eye. Dean drags a hand over his face before speaking. “This ain’t gonna work out, is it?”

       Roman shrugs again. It’s not like _he_ knows. Sure, if the teammate thing works out, it works out, and if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. It’s too early to tell right now, but if the three of them don’t even try they’re setting themselves up for failure. It’s weird, this roommate thing. The three of them are all very private in their own ways, but from what Punk said it sounded like he was onto something with the Nexus, and WWE gave him another shot with the three of them. They can’t let him down. They can’t let _themselves_ down. So they have to do this, this roommate thing, and give their all, otherwise what’s the point?

       “It will if we put effort towards it,” he finally says, and Dean let’s out a wry laugh.

       “You really believe that?”

       Roman gives him a look, making eye contact for just the briefest of moments. “I have to.”

       Silence hangs in the air between them, before Dean let’s out an amused chuckle out of his nose.

       “How ‘bout that.”

       

***

       Dean watches the ceiling with his eyes open but unfocused. He's wide awake, simply watching colors morph across his eyes in the darkness. The sheets don't feel right, the air doesn't smell right. Nothing is right. He sighs and turns on his side, deciding to watch the colors on the wall instead. It's not any more interesting, and it doesn't make him any more tired. He considers checking the time on his phone, but decides against it, knowing it’ll just make the boredom even more excruciating. So he watches the colors. Hopefully he’ll eventually get a few hours sleep so he's at least functional in case an operation for them comes through.

       He's probably the only one who's having trouble sleeping. At least when they were still in Developmental there might have been one or more people up at this hour with him, also having trouble sleeping, but from what he remembers of the sleeping habits of his stablemates, they aren't the ones.

       For one, Roman can sleep through practically anything if it isn't life threatening. He can go from deep sleep to fully awake and alert within minutes, which frankly Dean envies.

       Nights like these make him wonder if he's ever had a good night's sleep in his life. Maybe a handful of times, but nothing like the deep sleep Roman seems to be able to easily achieve. Bastard.

       From what he can recall, Rollins is a pretty average sleeper. He can fall asleep fairly easy and can stay asleep unless he needs to be up. Dean snorts lightly in the darkness, of course the three of them would all be completely different. Not for the first time since Punk suggested it is Dean questioning his decision. The three of them are just too different, and Dean can’t see how they can get any closer with living together, if anything, their clashing personalities could make the exact opposite happen, especially him and Rollins.

       Dean groans softly, his hand reaching up to strike himself a couple times in the head with his palm. It’s bad enough he can’t sleep, he doesn’t need his brain to keep thinking of things that are just going to make him stay awake longer.

       He tries closing his eyes, but after a few minutes he can start to feel them get restless underneath his eyelids, feeling strained even though they aren’t even open, so he opens them again and blinks rapidly, trying to get the strained feeling to go away.

       Suddenly, his phone—which is sitting on the nightstand—lights up, an alarm that he recognizes playing loud enough that it would probably wake Rollins and Reigns up, if he wasn’t absolutely positive that the same alarm is blaring at them.

       “Oh thank God,” Dean says, practically throwing back the covers and springing up out of the bed. He snatches his phone off the table and inspects it. The three of them have a new operation to prepare for, and Dean doesn’t even look at the actual time before abandoning his phone to go rummage through his duffel bag for something other than his pajamas. They’ll be assigned their actual gear once they get through with their briefing, and the idea that he won’t have his brain melt out of his head from boredom makes the inevitable sleepless night worth it. Quickly, he grabs a pair of jeans and hops into them, snatching his phone and cube off of the nightstand.

       He stops just long enough to stare at the two bottles also on the nightstand, before deciding against it and practically skipping out of his room.

 

***

       Rummaging through the cupboards, Seth blearily tries to read through the labels, praying that there is at least _some_ sort of coffee in the apartment, just so that he’ll be relatively alert for this operation. Their escort wont be picking them up for another fifteen minutes or so thank God, but it doesn’t make trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes any easier.

       “It should be to the right in the back.”

       It should also be noted that they need to get a damn bell for Reigns apparently. Seth doesn't startle—by product of training, exhaustion, or a mixture of the two—and he blinks at Reigns who looks as though he just woke up from a full night’s sleep, even though they all went to bed about three or so hours ago. Bastard. “What?” He asks, not cognitive enough to fully understand what Reigns is apparently trying to convey to him.

       Reigns doesn't respond, just reaches into the cupboard, revealing what Seth had been looking for, a small bag of instant coffee grounds. The two toned haired man blinks again and takes the bag when Reigns offers it to him, mumbling a small ‘thanks’, to which the tall Samoan shrugs in reply. He reaches over Seth’s head into another cupboard, grabbing two mugs and handing one over to Seth, who mutters another ‘thank you’ under his breath. Reigns doesn't even respond again, simply flips the tap to fill his cup up.

       They unfortunately don’t have a coffee maker—something Seth is rather keen on fixing now that it seems like they’ll be called into operations at all hours of the night—so he’ll just have to heat up some water in the microwave and dump the grounds in, but that’s better than nothing at this point.

       While he stares unfocused at the microwave as it spins his water around, Ambrose comes practically barreling out of his room like a bat out of Hell, accidentally checking his shoulder against the door frame and saying a bland, “Ow” probably due to nothing but instinct. It takes only a few long steps for him to make it through the living room and into the kitchen, where Seth openly glares at him for being so loud with just his damn presence alone.

       Ambrose must not notice his glare or doesn’t care, since he speaks. “Whatcha think it is?” He says, doing a strange little wiggle-bounce that Seth’s seen him do a couple of times before.

       “Does it really matter?” Reigns replies, cup poised at his lips.

       Ambrose shrugs. “Could be anything really. Hope it ain’t a dumbass stakeout or recon, that would be boring as hell.”

       Seth grunts as the microwave dings and he retrieves his water from it. “Only you would find any facet of espionage boring.” He says, stirring a generous amount of instant coffee into the steaming water.

       “Not built for standing by and watching. Better at the hands on,” the taller man replies. “‘S why we have you.”

       “So you think what I do is boring?” Seth says, taking a sip from his coffee. It burns his tongue a little and he winces, but he seriously needs some caffeine in his system if he’s going to make it through the night.

       Ambrose cracks another smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Boring but necessary.”

       “Gee thanks,” Seth replies flatly, sipping on his still too hot coffee.

       “Ten minutes ‘till pickup,” Reigns says, thankfully changing the subject.

       “Bet you twenty bucks it’ll be the Escalade again.” Dean says, a glint in his eye that Seth doesn’t like.

       “Twenty more says it isn’t,” the Samoan replies after a moment, and Seth actually gapes a little at that. Who’d’ve thought Reigns took bets?

       Ambrose frowns and opens his mouth to speak, maybe to argue but Seth can’t listen anymore. He sighs and ambles back towards the bathroom, sipping at his coffee and trying not to burn his mouth any more than he has.

       In the bathroom, he sets his cup down on the counter and pulls one of the drawers open. After ripping open two little packages he stares down the mirror, carefully pressing his contacts into his eyes, pleased that they aren’t fighting him tonight. The world loses its soft and blurry edges, but his eyes feel a little tired from putting contacts back in so soon after he took them out. He sighs, tossing the packaging back into the garbage before trying to pull his hair into some semblance of order. He’d been sleeping on it weird, so half of it is sort of flat and pressed to his head, while the other part is sticking out. With practiced movements, he gathers it tightly back and uses the hair tie on his wrist to secure it in a low bun at the base of his skull. With one more sigh, he runs his hands over his face, rubbing at his eyes before staring at himself in the mirror. He looks exhausted, of course, and maybe that's what his bosses wanted, wanted to see if the three of them could perform under exhaustion and a moment's notice. Well...if that’s what they want, that’s what they’re gonna get. He has to be able to prove himself as an operative, he just _has to._ There’s no other option.

       “Five minutes ‘till pickup,” Reigns says, poking his head into the bathroom.

       Seth actually does react this time, closing his eyes and swallowing the tenseness in his body away before opening his eyes again. “You need a damn bell on you,” he says, only half joking.

       The Samoan just raises a brow. “If it didn’t work for my parents it won’t work for you.” He says, before disappearing back into the hallway.

       “I don’t even know if he’s joking,” Seth says under his breath, reaching for his cup so he can finish the rest of his coffee.

 

***

       Dean taps his fingers idly on his collarbone, trying desperately not to watch the time tick by on the oven, counting the seconds along in his head. Five minutes until pickup, then maybe another twenty or so minutes to get to the briefing, then maybe a half an hour briefing, then another half an hour to an hour of preparation, then the mission. He doesn’t resist the urge to groan. It could be another two hours before he even gets to see any action. “They better not be wasting our fucking time.”

       Rollins returns from his little stint in the bathroom, and Dean watches as he strides over to the kitchen table. He doesn’t pull one of the chairs back to sit, but he leans on the edge, nursing the last bit of his coffee with a slightly far away expression. Roman is leaning similarly against the back of the couch, his arms crossed over his chest, looking deep in thought. Dean frowns, his fingers stopping their tapping. He must be the only one who’s actually excited for the mission—if they’re not wasting their time that is—which doesn’t make sense. The others should be equally excited that they’re being placed on another mission so soon. It’s another step closer to getting through with the stupid trial period and becoming true actual operatives. Rollins carefully sets his mug on the kitchen table and turns his head, trying his best to stifle a yawn behind his hand. Ah, right, it’s late and both Roman and Rollins were asleep when the call went out. Dean’s fingers start tapping again. _He’s_ currently running on no sleep, but in honestly sometimes that’s better than being pulled out of a semi-peaceful slumber. Sometimes it’s worse, but tonight doesn’t feel like one of those nights.

       At once, three noises quickly chirp in the air, each operative’s phone lighting up before quickly falling dark again. “Rides here.” Roman says, even though they all know what it means.

       Dean practically sprints towards their door. “Get your asses in gear, we ain’t got all night!” He says.

       Neither Roman nor Rollins dignify Dean with a response, but he doesn’t care, flinging the door open and galloping down the stairs to the ground floor, where their escort awaits them.

       It turns out not to be the Escalade again, and Dean just laughs and nudges Roman in the side while Rollins watches on, the look in his eye slightly bewildered. “Owe you twenty,” Dean says as they slip into the back seat of the plain looking sedan. Dean slides all the way across to behind the driver, turning his attention to the window outside.

       “Forty.” Roman corrects, gesturing for Rollins to slide into the car before him. The two toned haired man frowns and gives Roman a quick glance, but the Samoan doesn’t budge, dragging a sigh out of Rollins. He slides into the back seat, scooting as far as he’ll allow himself next to Dean while still giving Roman room to slide in.

       “I won’t bite ya unless you deserve it,” Dean murmurs, flashing a toothy grin at Rollins before turning his attention to Roman, who looks a little squished against the door. “Right right, forty,” He concedes.

 

***

       Reigns crosses his arms and leans against the window and practically zonks out, and at this moment Seth couldn’t be more jealous of the big man’s ability to fall asleep anywhere vaguely horizontal.

       The silence that permeates the car steadily becomes deafening, to the point where Seth figures a pin drop could be heard if anyone bothered to try. He’s trapped in between his teammates with nowhere to go, and the silence becomes too much, even for him. He glances at Ambrose, who doesn’t seem to be paying attention to him in the least, his eyes in the reflection in the glass flicking back and forth.

       Seth clears his throat. “You uh...you get any sleep at all?” He asks, his voice coming out soft without his permission. It’s almost like it didn’t want to disturb the quiet and tense atmosphere with more noise than it needed to.

       Ambrose stops his twitching, but he doesn’t turn towards Seth to look at him. Instead, their eyes meet in the nearly translucent reflection of the window. “Naw.”

       God this couldn’t be more awkward if they actually literally tried to make it more awkward. “Gonna be alright?”

       Ambrose actually turns his head to answer this time, and Seth is struck by how bright and clear Ambrose’s eyes are. Only just now he thinks that he’s never been this close to Ambrose while making eye contact before. That can’t be true can it? They’ve been in close proximity in training since Day One, but for some reason he can’t seem to recall Ambrose looking this way.

       Seth is so lost in his thoughts he almost misses Ambrose actually speaking. “This ain’t my first rodeo Rollins, and if I can help it, it sure as hell ain’t gonna be my last. A little sleep deprivation can’t stop me.”

       Seth blinks as the other man turns his head away again, breaking their gaze. Seth clears his throat again and looks down at his hands clenched together in his lap. “Right, of course. Sorry.” Again, his voice comes out soft.

       Ambrose is silent for a long moment before he speaks. “Forget it.”

 

       Once they reach headquarters, they’re unceremoniously ushered into one of the many board rooms on the above ground floors. Punk is there, nursing his own cup of coffee and looking fairly unhappy with the current events. There are two other men in the room besides Punk, and he gestures for his three operatives to sit across from them. One is an older looking, balding, red faced man in a smart looking suit and a shark-like smile. His hands are crossed on the table in front of him, and he looks for all intents and purposes completely pleased to be here in the middle of the night.

       Seth’s eyes nearly fall out of his head at the second man seated to his right. Sitting in front of the three of them in an equally smart suit but no smile is none other than the Chairman of WWE’s NXT Developmental Unit and the COO of the entirety of WWE, Hunter Hearst Helmsley.

       “Boys,” Punk says, sounding as tired as he looks. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Paul Heyman, and—”

       “Triple H,” Ambrose interrupts, and Seth has half a mind to strangle the man next to him for interrupting their boss in front of—Seth assumes—his own bosses.

       Fortunately, Mr. Helmsley doesn't seem to phased by the interruption, which Seth counts as a blessing of the highest degree. “It seems I need no introductions. Nice to officially meet you boys.” He says with a small smirk, offering a hand in turn for each operative to shake.

       “Sir,” Seth nods as he shakes, maintaining eye contact with Helmsley. He doesn't miss how the older man’s smile widens just a fraction and Seth feels his insides flutter just slightly at the recognition. He had only interacted with Mr. Helmsley once before, when the man announced he was the highest scoring operative in the NXT training program and offered him his congratulations, and Seth is still just as starstruck now as he was then.

       “Now that we have introductions out of the way,” Mr. Heyman says, and Punk winces at how loudly he speaks, the sharp tones of Heyman’s voice obviously not cooperating with his tired state. “We have a job for the three of you.”

       “Shoot,” Ambrose says leaning forward and lacing his fingers together on the table, and Seth internally winces again at his Stablemate’s familiar and blasé tone.

       Mr. Heyman’s shark-like smile just grows wider. “I like a man who’s all business.” He shifts. “Now gentleman, we know you're familiar with your trial period, so we're not going to bore or belittle you by explaining it again. So here’s the deal—” he leans forward. “—are you boys familiar with a man named John Cena?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all had a Happy Holidays and have a Happy New Year!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They want the Shield to do what?!

***

        Is there anyone in WWE who doesn’t know who John Cena is? The man is practically the highest ranking operative they have. He’s basically the face of the entire company and yet something about the things Seth’s heard and seen about Cena always rubbed him the wrong way.

        First and foremost Cena doesn’t believe in code names and field names. He insists that anyone who wants to come after him can—in his own words— “Come and fight him face to face.” Because of that he works primarily alone, so as to not endanger any of his other coworkers.

        He’s arrogant about his skills—not without merit Seth grudgingly admits—and will talk circles around you if you give him a chance to. He’ll follow the rules he likes, disregard the ones that he doesn’t. He just...does what he wants, and frankly it gets underneath Seth’s skin because that’s not how this business _works_ and—

        Reigns interrupts his mental tirade with a quiet, “Yeah, we know Cena.”

        Seth sighs and nods in agreement. “Yes, Sir.”

        Heyman nods and speaks. “Excellent!” He leans forward, as if he’s going to impart some secret to them, and Seth leans in just a little bit as well. “Getting straight to the point here, boys. There are those in this company who seem to think that they can do whatever they want and not have to face consequences. Mr. Cena from the get go has been someone who we’ve had concerns with.” He says, face pulled in solemnly. He then leans back and rolls his eyes as if exasperated. “He refuses to follow protocol, and believes that his ideas are better than those instructed of him. There have also been rumors that he is looking to leave WWE.”

        Ambrose for once has some sense and Seth notices him frown. “You can’t just leave WWE.”

        Heyman nods, his sharp smile once again gracing his features. “I agree. Unfortunately for us, the man is damn good at his job, which keeps him relatively safe when it comes down to it.”

        Mr. Helmsley speaks then, and Seth makes sure to pay extra attention to every word. “You will be working with Punk on this mission,” he says. “Cena has been given his own mission, and it is the Shield’s job to interfere with said mission.”

        Seth blinks. Working with Punk? He glances over to his boss. He hasn't heard of Punk doing a lot of field work ever since the whole thing with the Nexus went down. It's not hard to tell—at least to Seth—that Punk misses doing fieldwork, but now, with them? Is being the supervisor of The Shield actually letting Punk go back to doing what he does best? Is that another reason he vouched for the three of them to become a stable? Is that the only reason? No, that can't be it, Punk isn't the kind of man who would manipulate people like that.

        “Interfere?” Reigns asks, the uncertain tinge in his tone betraying the rather stony look on his face.

        Mr. Helmsley nods. “There aren’t many operatives who are aware of who you three are yet, and this is a perfect opportunity to make yourselves known while simultaneously laying down a little...let’s say justice,” He replies. “Your job is to interfere, take down Cena’s mark, while Punk here takes care of Cena. Understand?”

        Ambrose’s frown only deepens, and Seth absolutely doesn’t like that look. “You’re not gonna kill Cena are you?” He asks, pressing on his knuckles to crack them. Seth eyes the motion with wary disdain. His teammate really shouldn’t be talking back so much to the two men who are literally asking them to become a hit-squad.

        Mr. Heyman laughs, even though it’s not particularly a laughing matter in Seth’s eyes. “Oh Heaven’s no! He’s too valuable to the company, damn good at his job as I said. He just needs to be reminded that he is not the one in control here, and that he should rethink how he acts from now on.”

        “So why even let us in on the operation in the first place?” Ambrose just can’t keep his mouth fucking shut, can he? “I reckon Punk is perfectly capable of taking care of Cena himself.” He adds, throwing a thumb Punk’s way.

        “Yes of course, but having Cena’s mark taken right out from under him as punishment as well? That’ll sting,” Heyman explains away easily, gesturing vaguely with his hands.

        Reigns nods, shifting in his seat. His brows are pulled ever so slightly together, a small knot between them indicating his distaste. “So we’re basically acting as a non lethal hit-squad.”

        Heyman smiles. “Exactly!”

        Seth swallows. He can feel the tension coming from his Stablemates that Mr. Heyman obviously doesn’t seem to sense. Or maybe he does, and doesn’t care. Seth takes a breath. It feels like the three of them are all thinking the same thing, all relatively displeased with what’s been dealt to them so damn early in the morning. If this is a test, it’s a hell of a complicated one. He has to say something, his gut is telling him to even though his mind is screaming for him to stay silent. “Will all due respect sirs,” He says, and all eyes flick to him. He swallows again, trying to be careful with his words. “We’ve just been elevated to Operative status. If we were to become...a team of enforcers as you call it...so soon into our careers, there is a potential we could be branded as operatives who...who well betray their comrades.” He sits a little straighter, looking directly at Helmsley, hoping the little gamble will work. “After coming so far...I think my teammates and I can agree that the last thing we want to do is jeopardize our place in the company so soon.”

        Mr. Helmsley’s eyes narrow at Seth, as if he’s seeing him for the first time. It’s nerve wracking, the Chief Operating Officer of the entire company staring him down. He doesn’t look angry, but rather like he’s thinking, observing Seth and trying to cut through Seth’s words right down to his core. It makes Seth’s insides flip flop dangerously, but thankfully, Mr. Heyman’s voice cuts through the air to answer him, and it tears Mr. Helmsley’s eyes away.

        “Oh don’t think of it like that! Think of it as you being enforcers! You’ll still be going on operations just as everyone else does, but if someone steps out of line—for the safety of yourselves and every operative of this company—you three will be given the order to ‘remind’ said operatives that what we do is not something to be taken lightly.” Mr. Heyman nods, as if agreeing with himself. “This is entirely in the best interest of everyone you work with and for! Think of it. The Shield, protecting your fellow operatives and the world!”

        The world may be a bit of an exaggeration, but the idea of being put in charge of making sure that the company remains safe and that the operatives stay safe and in line is a pretty daunting and important one. If Seth is honest with himself, in that deep dark pit inside of every person, the notion of being given such an important task, the notion of being seen as needed, the notion of—if they’re being perfectly blunt here—being given power over his fellow operatives, is scarily tempting.

        Everyone in the room can sense the apprehension of the three men, if the silence that continues to tick by is any indication. Mr. Heyman’s face starts to fall and sour the more they hesitate, perhaps thinking that this offer was a no-brainer and that the three of them would accept no questions asked. Seth glances over to his Stablemates, neither of which look very on board with the idea. He then looks up at Punk, their own Boss, their Mentor, for some sort of life-line. The elder man blinks and let’s out a tired sigh. “Paul.”

        Both Mr. Heyman and Mr. Helmsley turn their attention to the man, and Seth blinks. That’s a little odd.

        “Yes, Punk?” Mr. Heyman is outright frowning now, staring at Punk as if the man had any control over how his operatives feel about the proposition.

        “How about we wait until the Shield actually successfully completes an enforcer assignment before asking them to agree?” Punk asks calmly, taking a sip of his now probably lukewarm coffee. “Agreeing and going in blind before actually feeling out a mission and seeing how well it’s executed is a little bad business sense, dontcha think Boss?” He asks, the latter part of his sentence aimed at Helmsley, who after a moment, purses his lips in thought.

        Helmsley sighs, running a hand over his shorn hair. “Alright, after the operation, we will review and come to a decision. Does that sound agreeable?”

        Seth feels his mouth tick up in an involuntary smile, thankful for Punk’s interference. Being able to go through the operation before making a decision that could drastically change the course of their careers in espionage certainly takes some of the heaviness out of the idea. For now they could all just think of it as one more mission, one more operation to get through.

        “I believe so,” Seth says, nodding at Helmsley. He once again glances at his teammates, who thankfully look at least a little more on board with the idea.

        “Alright,” is all Reigns says, his laced together fingers betraying the calm tone with how tightly they’re twined together.

        That just leaves Ambrose. God, Seth hopes the man agrees. They either do this together and not at all, and Seth not comfortable with Ambrose suddenly becoming the linchpin in this decision. It doesn’t take a genius or even training to see that Ambrose doesn’t particularly _like_ the more strict and secretive parts of the job—would rather just be pointed at something, wound up and let go—but these are the kind of things that are going to come up in the WWE. Things that Ambrose can’t just punch or annoy away.

        Finally, Ambrose gives a little half shrug, his fingers tapping on the table in a pattern that seemingly only makes sense to him—because if there is one, Seth can’t see it—before nodding. “Yeah, sure, we’ll play beat ‘em up for now.”

        Seth lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Really the whole thing could have come to a grinding halt with how stubborn Ambrose is, so Seth is thankful that he at least has some sense in that brain of his.

        “Excellent, excellent!” Mr. Heyman pushes his chair back and stands rather quickly, not seeming to notice how the other men in the room all tense at the quick, unexpected action. “Thank you gentlemen, I expect it all to go well.”

        Apparently he’s finished with them since he turns to leave the conference room, quickly striding out of the door without a second glance. It stirs motion in the other men, Mr. Helmsley clearing his throat and adjusting his jacket before he moves to stand. He nods at the three of them. “We want you to treat this as high risk situation. Full tactical gear as well as strategy. It is highly likely that your target is armed and dangerous, so if deadly force needs to be taken, you have my authority to take it.” He states.

        Deadly force. Of course it’s something that Seth had thought about—had trained through—and eventually knew they had to implicate at one point or another during their careers, but so soon? Either Mr. Helmsley had a high opinion of the three of them, or he thought of them as disposable. Seth hopes it’s the former rather than the latter. He nods back regardless. “Of course, Sir.”

        The older man’s face breaks out in a slight smile then. “Once again, pleasure to meet you boys. I have high hopes for you,” he says, turning and acknowledging Punk before following Mr. Heyman’s example and exiting the conference room without another word.

        With a sigh, Punk sets his coffee mug down on the conference table and runs a hand over his face.

        “Boss?” Ambrose asks, breaking the hesitation that hangs in the air.

        “Suit up,” he says without looking at them. “I’ll meet up with you later.”

 

***

        Dean grunts as he methodically clasps and unclasps the straps to his tactical vest. Something about that Paul Heyman guy doesn't sit well with him at fucking all. He watched the man throughout their entire exchange, and he couldn't read whether or not this guy actually found the idea of them being a personal hit-squad for the entire company jovial. This whole affair feels far too much like becoming teacher's pets for his own damn liking. "I don't like this," he states aloud, pushing his locker closed with more force than he knows is necessary, but damn it, his gut is not agreeing with him. If he's learned anything about this business, it's that his gut has an annoying tendency to be right about things.

        Roman carefully closes his locker to Dean's right. "We don't have to like it," he replies, adjusting his right wrist guard.

        Rollins of course has to pipe up now that they're talking.

        And people call _Dean_ a motor mouth.

        With Rollins around, the shorter man always has to have the last word. "We basically just got sanctioned to beat a guy up.” He's tying his hair back again, tight against in scalp before slipping his gloves over his fingers. “Thought that would be right up your alley.”

        Dean sighs and reopens his locker to retrieve hand wraps, letting them unwind before starting the rather laborious process of circling them around his wrists. "My alley doesn't usually involve what practically equates to playground bullying."

        Roman reaches for his boots and carefully sits one of the benches lining the room, quickly stuffing his feet into them and lacing them up, securing them tight. For some reason, Reigns always puts his boots on last. Dean's noticed of course—that's what he does, he notices things—but he doesn't comment. Everyone has their own rituals to prepare for a mission, and Roman isn't excluded in that. "You have to admit that Cena has it coming," the Samoan says finally, tying the laces of his boots into a double knot.

        "Just because a guy likes to go his own way doesn't mean he should be punished for it," Dean grumbles, starting the wrap on his left hand.

        Rollins scoffs and the noise makes Dean's face twitch. "You don't just get to do what you want in Espionage, Ambrose." Rollins finally closes his locker and even that action has something itching under Dean's skin. "We have orders and protocol for a reason. Heyman is right, if everyone just got to 'go their own way' as you put it, there would be no such thing as espionage. You know why—"

        "Oh please, enlighten me," Dean growls, pushing his locker shut once again. Oh, this little weasel better know he's gunning towards a fight that Dean's all too willing to give.

        Rollins just scrunches his face up at Dean, like he's disgusted with him, like he's stepped in dog shit and Dean's just a mild inconvenience that he has to deal with and fucking hell does that make Dean's blood boil. Before he can give Rollins a well earned slug however, a hand descends on his neck, gripping it tight. Dean bristles and practically swings around to throw a fist at Roman, who's hand is braced just underneath the back of his skull. Reigns squeezes, but not too hard, just a presence and a silent request for Dean to cool his fucking jets apparently. Dean hates how it actually makes the anger sizzling in his bones temper just enough do that he's not going to immediately punch the stupid look off of Rollins' face, no matter how much the punk actually deserves it.

        But the asshole opens his mouth to fucking speak anyway. "It's how people die, Ambrose." He says, before turning on his heels to walk out of the room.

        Dean’s face falls. Damn it all to hell.

        He hates that Rollins is right.

***

         Although they're going to rendezvous with Punk at the mission point, they _do_ in fact meet up all together before they depart, standing in front of two vehicles ready to whisk them away to their designated positions. While the Shield operatives are dressed to the nines in their tactical gear, Punk is dressed rather understated in comparison. Perhaps it's to not arouse suspicion in Cena and lure him into a false sense security or something to that effect. The older man glances over his operatives, and Dean notices him immediately stop using his teeth to fiddle with the piercing in his lip.

         It's an action that Dean recognizes in a lot of senior operatives.In the privacy of their own selves, the years of training and application of their skills slip away, only to be firmly slammed back into place in the face of company. While he understands that there's a time and place to use their skills of deception and their skills of handling facial cues and nonverbal communication, Dean has never understood how people can just turn things off. He's more apt at hiding things behind _more_ emotion, not less. Reigns is the most extreme case Dean has seen so far, turning himself off so much even outside of missions. Dean highly doubts that's just the way Reigns is, it would be too convenient, too easy.

         Then again, Dean's always been a motor mouth, so trying to imagine being quiet and stoic all the time makes his lip curl in a semi-scowl.

         “Boys,” Punk addresses them, the rather relaxed demeanor Dean's used to seeing in Punk dropping for something more alert, more edgy, more like….more like the field operative Punk really is. It's almost refreshing to see, and it makes a smirk crack Dean’s lips.

         “You ready, Boss?” He asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets. His little cube is there, and he fiddles with it idly, trying to calm his hands down from where they were itching to deck Rollins before.

         Punk reciprocates the smirk. “‘As I’ll ever be’. That the phrase?” He jokes, running his hands over his head.

         “It's been a while since you've been back out on the field, you going to be ok, Sir?” Rollins asks, ever the fucking boy scout. Dean grimaces and rolls his eyes.

         Punk's smirk doesn't fade, but it definitely changes, no longer so amused. “It takes more than some time away for me to for lose my edge, Seth,” he replies, clenching and unclenching his fists.

         Rollins actually has the decency to look embarrassed, coughing and looking away. Funny how in the face of authority he seems to cow down, but in the face of those who he calls equals—or even below him Dean doesn't know or particularly care—Rollins isn't afraid to use his wicked tongue. “Of course, forgive me, Sir.”

        Punk just shrugs, as if the implication that his skills are rusty just slides off him like water off of a duck’s back. “I get it, Seth. Tensions are high. No harm done.”

        “So what, we just gonna go in, beat a guy's ass, then you’ll kick Cena’s?” Dean asks, crossing his arms over his chest. It sounds too easy to be true.

        Punk just chuckles. “In so many words, yes. You’re to separate Cena from his mark, take him down, then if needed, act as backup,” He explains.

        Dean grumbles, fiddling harder with the cube in his pocket. “Wish they would just tell us that in the first place.”

        Punk just scoffs, shaking his head at him. “Be happy they were actually up front with what you’re doing.” He then sighs. “Listen boys. I’m not going to lie to you. Honestly….this—well this isn’t what I expected for you three when I first had the idea to form The Shield.”

        “You didn’t think we’d become mercenaries within our own company,” Roman says.

        Damn, when he puts it that way.

        Punk shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.” He looks up at them, and his expression is tight, his brows turned up. “I don’t know what to expect when we go out there tonight. If this is something that you three are willing to do, willing to have the responsibility over, I’m not going to stop you.”

        “Do you think it will become our permanent position?” Rollins asks, his tone wary.

        Punk just shrugs, his laughter coming out a little bitter and wry. “I can’t tell you, I honestly can’t.”

        He sounds tired, and not just due to the hour. Something in Punk’s tone tells Dean that he almost feels…resigned. He’s reluctant about the mission, Dean can tell from just his tone, but there’s something else, something that’s eating away at Punk that he’s not really ready—or willing—to say.

        Dean just sighs. “Well...one step at a time, I guess,” He says, running his free hand through his slicked back hair, messing it up a little. A lock falls in front of his eyes but he doesn’t bother to fix it. “Let’s just get this thing over with and we’ll worry about what happens when it happens. What’s the phrase? ‘We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it?’”

        Rollins actually snorts and he covers his mouth with his hand, and he flushes red when Dean and the others give him looks. “That is absolutely _not_ the phrase,” he says, his voice a little strained, either with embarrassment or laughter, maybe even both.

        Now that Dean thinks about it, it’s is the first time he’s ever seen Rollins smile.

        He has a gap in his front teeth. Huh.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

***

        It takes them almost an hour and a half to get to their destination, and Dean can almost feel himself vibrating out of his bones to get out of the car and actually go _do_ something already. He’s been waiting long enough and he can feel himself just starting to wane, his focus and his energy starting to fade at the edges of his consciousness, and if he were a man to worry about things a little more, it would probably concern him more than it does. As of right now, it’s just showing how much this mission has already wasted their time. He hopes at least he can get a few good punches in against their mark. His hands are still itching for a good slug from his confrontation with Rollins earlier.

         Speaking of the guy, he’s got the operation files open in his lap, reading over them for what is most likely not the first or even the second time. Dean grimaces and looks away from the shifting words with a swallow. Car sickness or motion sickness isn't something that usually plagues him, but something about reading in a moving vehicle just sets something right off in his gut. Thankfully this car is bigger than the sedan and the three of them aren't so squished together. “I think we should talk strategy,” Rollins says suddenly, still not looking up from the case files.

         Dean scoffs. “What strategy, we’re taking down _one_ mark. How much strategy should that involve?”

         Rollins finally drags his eyes up from the file and looks at Dean from underneath his brows, quite obviously displeased. “More than you’d think, Ambrose,” he says.

         Roman is in the row of seats behind them, content to sit in the back since it gives him extra room. He leans forward when Rollins speaks, hooking his chin over the back of the seat. “Go ahead, I’m listening,” he says, giving a poignant glance at Dean.

         Dean sighs and slumps a little in his seat but looks over at Rollins. The half blonde man just sighs back and reaches down to flip through the file. A picture shows up and Rollins points at it. “This is our mark.”

         Dean glances down at the picture, and what looks to be a tall, very muscular, very angry looking man stares right back at him. Ah, well, that might complicate things. He then blinks and leans forward, not really noticing that he’s leaning into Rollins’ space, or how the shorter man kind of leans away while making a tight lipped face. “I think I’ve seen him before,” Dean says, his brows pulling low over his eyes. “They got a name in the file?”

         Rollins flips to another page and points. “Says Ryback.”

         Dean just leans in closer his eyes narrowing into a squint. “Yeah…I think…I think he’s one of ours.”

         Rollins jerks his head up. “What do you mean?”

         Dean shrugs and looks away with a resigned sigh. “Pretty sure this guy is with WWE.”

         “Looks like we’re punishing more than just Cena,” Roman replies under his breath, reaching a hand down and taking the file from Rollins, who readily hands it over.

         “What do you think warranted Ryback being targeted, Ambrose?”

         Dean lolls his head against the headrest. “Doesn’t say in your fancy file?”

         “No.”

         Dean head rolls towards Rollins. “Doesn’t...play...well...with...others,” he replies slowly, putting harsh emphasis on his pronunciation.

         “Ah,” is all Rollins says.

         “What do you think would be the easiest way to get this guy out of the way so Punk can go ahead with Cena?” Roman asks.

         Rollins clicks his tongue, sucking in a breath. It doesn’t escape Dean that the action makes a tiny whistle due to the gap in the man’s two front teeth. He gestures vaguely with his hand in Roman’s vicinity, indicating the file. “The best option for infiltration and confrontation I can see is through several different points.” He says. “Cena is meeting Ryback in an area where those entry points meet, to which I am now certain is no accident.”

       Dean listens as Roman flips quickly through the file. “Looks like a catwalk, several stairwells, and a... vo-mi-toria?” Roman asks, slowly reading the last word.

       “They’re passageways that’re in like stadiums and amphitheaters so crowds can move quicker. Sometimes actors use ‘em to enter or exit scenes and shit too.” Dean replies softly. The nearly complete silence following the answer makes him turn his head. Both Roman and Rollins are staring at him like he's grown two heads. He shrugs. “‘S'what they’re called,” he mumbles underneath his breath.

         Rollins clears his throat. “Yes, right. So as I was saying, the key here is speed and coordination. If we can lure him away, overpower him, and not give him the chance to strike back, it should be easy to take him out.”

         “Triple H said that he’s likely armed and dangerous, that’s something we should take into account,” Dean comments, rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling of the car. “He said we should use deadly force if needed.”

         Rollins sighs through his nose. “Yeah, I know.” There’s a moment of hesitation before he speaks again, tapping his thumb against his thigh. “I still think if we work quickly and cooperatively, he won’t have a chance to use anything that would cause us to enact deadly force.”

         “Alright, but if you get us shot I am straight up punching you in your fucking face,” Dean replies coarsely, still staring at the ceiling.

         “Why don’t you save that for Ryback?” Rollins snarks, and Dean just gives the smaller man one of his toothy smiles that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

         “There’s more than enough to go around, Rollins.”

 

***

         Seth claims the catwalk. With it’s high vantage point it allows him to see everything he needs to see. With quick hands, he ties off the end of his rope to the edge of the metal, making triple sure it’s secure enough to hold his weight and not untie itself. Descending fast-roping style is never his favorite, and thankfully he had the forethought to bring his heat resistant gloves. Urging himself not to pace, he hold his commlink to his ear and speaks only as loudly as he needs to to be heard. “Architect, in position, over.”

         It takes a few seconds for someone to respond, and Seth let’s out a breath when a quiet but calm, “Big Dog, in position, over,” responds. Reigns has taken one of the stairwells, since it lays across to where Ambrose should be positioned, in one of the vomitoriums.

         Counting Cena among their numbers, Ryback should have nowhere to run before the Shield is upon him, and with the distraction, it’ll hopefully give enough time for Punk to do what he needs to do.

         “Fringe, in position, over.” Ambrose finally replies, and Seth nods. The lines go quiet, and Seth adjusts his mask.

         Cena and Ryback should be coming along any moment. Reigns and Ambrose will attack first, and if Ryback decides to try and get away, his only option will be to run right underneath Seth, who will drop down and attack from above. Seth is almost entirely certain Ryback is going to fight back, but against the three of them, they should prevail.

         Seth perks up just slightly at the sound of footsteps. Through the large space they echo, just enough. Seth watches as their mark strolls underneath him, and it’s terribly good to know that wherever he came from, if he thinks about going back, he’s going to have to go past Seth again to get there. What’s not so good is that he sees that Ryback has a pistol in his hand. “Armed and dangerous, I repeat, mark is armed and dangerous, over.” He relays.

         More echoing footsteps, and Seth watches as Cena enters from the other side of the arena. The man is dressed as he always seems to be, as street casual as can be, a smile on his face from what Seth can see. They meet, and from Ryback’s body language, he’s angry, or at least not pleased to be here in the first place. They speak in hushed tones, and Seth can’t really make it out over the frantic beating of his own heart. He’s not scared, maybe a little nervous, but honestly it just feels like his body is gearing itself up for what’s about to happen.

         He lets the two speak for now, waiting for the opportune moment. “CM Punk, in position, over,” crackles over the commlink, and Seth just has to smile.

         “Roger that,” Seth replies. “Big Dog, Fringe...Divide and Conquer!”

         Whatever Cena had planned for Ryback, he’s not going to get the chance to begin as both Reigns and Ambrose sweep up quickly from their positions, covering Ryback’s left and right points. Neither reach for the pistols strapped to them—Reigns at his left thigh and Ambrose under his left armpit—but Seth know’s both of them are poised and ready to draw if they need to.

         It doesn’t take the larger man long to understand what’s going on, or at least what he _thinks_ is going on, since he whips around to Cena, gun pointed at him. Still, neither Reigns nor Ambrose pull their own respective weapons. “You set me up, Cena!”

         Cena looks just as confused and angry. He puts his hands up in a placating motion. “I swear, I don’t have a damn clue what’s going on!” He says, his eyes flicking back and forth to the agents surrounding them. With the masks and the only recent promotion to operative status, Cena should be hard pressed to recognize them.

         Ryback however, doesn’t get another word in edgewise before Big Dog is on him, thrusting his elbow out to hit Ryback in the side. As the man crumples slightly, Reigns uses the momentum to shift and force his palm into the big man’s elbow, hyper extending it and therefore weakening Ryback’s stance and the hold on his weapon in almost the blink of an eye. With another quick succession of movements, Reigns reaches and plucks the pistol right out of Ryback’s grasp, unclips the magazine, and tosses it and the gun in separate directions.

         Quick to react and understand that he’s woefully outnumbered, Ryback growls, “Fuck this,” under his breath and turns to try to run away, but he unfortunately runs right in the direction of Seth. Seth allows himself a self satisfied smirk as he tosses his rope down over the end of the catwalk. There's always something about plans coming together just as he predicted that just feels so gratifying. He throws himself over the edge, fast roping down with a speed and ease that doesn't give Ryback a chance to change his trajectory or even turn back around before Seth practically drops down on his head. As he lands, Seth twirls and thwacks his closed fist into Ryback’s solar plexus, using the momentum of his turning hips to send it hard into the muscle.

         The breath leaves Ryback with a wheeze and as he staggers back and clutches his stomach, Seth pulls in close to run up, jump, and stomp his head into the ground. Not the typical technique to bring someone bigger than you down, but the opportunity is there, and Seth is never one to waste an opportunity.

         Unfortunately for the smaller man, Ryback is made of tougher stuff than marks he’s had to deal with in the past. Instead of staying down at the face of being literally stomped into the ground by someone’s boot, Ryback instead shouts in pain and practically roars as he rears back up to face Seth, who very much now knows that even though Ryback no longer has a gun, he is still very much in the line of fire.

       However, a deep, almost war cry sounds through the air, and Seth barely has the wherewithal to move out of the way before Reigns uses the entirety of his weight to throw himself against Ryback like a fucking spear. It sends them both sprawling against the ground, and Seth is eternally glad that he made it out of the way. He doesn’t want to know what it would feel like to have more than five hundred pounds crush him into the ground. Yet somehow, through some fucking miracle, Ryback still seems to have some fight in him, even after being plowed into the ground by over two hundred and fifty pounds of sheer force. He growls and shoves Reigns off of him, and the look on the Samoan's face is one that Seth really hasn't seen before. His mask had fallen off when the two of them came crashing to the ground, and his mouth is slightly agape as he stares at Ryback trying to shakily pull himself off the ground. The man seems to have finally understood that if he wants to go anywhere, if he wants to escape, he's going to have to fight the three of them, since he makes no move for the exit behind him.

         It's Ambrose's turn next, and Seth watches as he comes barreling at Ryback—albeit with slightly more control than Reigns' full body tackle—and, with enough force to make Seth's own teeth rattle, checks his head directly into Ryback's. How in the hell can he even do that without hurting himself? Without giving him time to react, Ambrose lays several well aimed punches onto Ryback's person, mainly focusing on the big man's torso. Ambrose concentrates his attacks on the points that both Seth and Roman have already attacked, and Seth has to give him credit for paying attention to that. Despite his rather scrappy way of fighting, he really seems to know what he's doing when it comes down to it. Ambrose manages to duck as Ryback tries to swing at him, and the tawny haired man slips underneath him to hook his arms up under Ryback's own. Using his leg to swing his weight, Ambrose uses the momentum to drop back and down and send Ryback's head smashing into the ground once again.

         It’s an impressive move to say the least, and as Ambrose stands and steps away he rips his mask off and throws it, panting and staring down at Ryback with wide eyes. His fists open and close, ready for anything that Ryback could potentially throw their way. Thankfully, for now it seems that Ambrose’s attacks were enough to keep the big man down at least for a little while.

         "Quick, help me get him up, I have an idea." Seth says, trotting over to the fallen man and reaching to haul him up.

         "What the hell does this plan entail, pray tell?" Ambrose replies sharply, but moves towards Ryback anyways.

         Seth glances over his shoulder just long enough to see that Punk and Cena are trading their own blows, and as much as he'd love to watch their Mentor at work, they have their own work to do. They have to work quickly, before Ryback can get his bearings again. "If we can get him up and run him through the door, that should give Punk enough time to take care of Cena."

         "You want us to lift this motherfucker and throw him through plate glass?! _That’s_ your grand idea?!" Ambrose practically shouts, and Ryback groans and shifts as he starts to regain consciousness.

         "If you have any better ideas I would _love_ to hear them!" Seth snaps back, still reaching so he can at least attempt to lift Ryback up enough. The lifting suddenly gets easier as Reigns reaches down to help him. They hook Ryback’s arm’s underneath their own, still slightly struggling with the man’s practical dead weight.

         Ambrose opens his mouth again to argue or shout or something, but Reigns beats him to it. He whips his head up and the look he shoots Ambrose is downright angry, his brows pulled in tight and his lip curled back slightly. He growls, "Shut up and help!”

         Ambrose's mouth shuts with a click and he looks at Reigns for a long second before sighing and reaching down to help the two of them lift Ryback up. He hooks Ryback’s legs underneath his shoulders and with some effort, the three of them manage to lift him up and around their shoulders. “What now?” Reigns grunts out, glancing at Seth out of the corner of his eye.

         Panting, Seth glances back at his teammates. "Toss him—through the glass!"

         “This better fucking work, Rollins!” Ambrose growls, starting their forward momentum towards the glass. It’s not a very far distance thankfully—even with the three of them it would be hard to run with this much mass for a long ways—and as they approach the mirror, Seth shouts out.

         “Now!”

         With all of their might, the three operatives heave Ryback up and forward, tossing him at the glass doors. As if in slow motion, the three of them watch as Ryback flies through the air, and with a sharp sound, smashes through the glass.

         The glass caves underneath his weight, and Seth, Ambrose, and Reigns all step back and shield themselves from the shower of glass shards that erupt around the big man, almost obscuring him from view as he crashes into the ground with a cry of agony.

         It all goes silent after that, almost eerily so. The only thing Seth can really hear is his heart still pounding, his blood still rushing through his veins, and if he listens hard enough, he can hear his own panting as he stares down at Ryback.

         He’s covered in cuts, glass sticking out of him in places, and Seth keeps his eyes trained just in case even that effort wasn’t enough. This definitely wasn’t their most elegant execution of an operation, but in retrospect they didn’t really need it to be. This wasn’t something that needed to be kept on the down low, not something that was going to affect the outside world in any way other than keeping what they do a secret.

         For long moments Seth stares, fairly unaware of anything else except the prone form before them, until a voice calls out and shatters the silence. “Boys!”

         Seth finally manages to tear his eyes away from their mark, glancing up at his teammates who have been doing exactly as he had; staring down Ryback, preparing themselves for the man to get back up again. The three of them are still panting, from the adrenaline or exhaustion, Seth isn’t sure. It’s probably a mixture of both. He turns to see Punk, standing over Cena, who lays at Punk’s feet as prone as Ryback, though without an entire window/door full of glass embedded in him. Punk’s lip is cut and sluggishly bleeding, but other than that, he doesn’t look any worse for wear.

         “Boss?” Ambrose asks carefully, still not entirely turning away from Ryback.

         Punk sighs and runs a hand over his head. “We’re done, Boys. Call it in.”

         Seth risks another glance at his Stablemates, who don’t move to fulfill the order, so Seth reaches up to his ear and activates his commlink. “This is Agent Rollins of Sierra, Hotel, India, Echo, Lima, Delta. The mark has been taken care of, I repeat, the mark has been taken care of. Over.”

         Surprisingly, Paul Heyman’s voice replies in his ear. “Perfect! And of Punk’s mark?”

         Seth glances at Cena, but Punk beats him to the answer. “Neutralized, over,” He says, and it’s odd hearing Punk’s voice so far away and yet right in his ear at the same time.

         “Excellent!” Mr. Heyman’s voice grates in Seth’s ear, too loud and too energized for the mood of the room. The adrenaline from the fight is starting to wear down, and the exhaustion from the lack of sleep is catching up to Seth. He can feel his blinks becoming harder and longer to manage, and even though he didn’t bodily throw himself at Ryback like Reigns and Ambrose did, he feels about ready to drop. “Return to base!” Heyman adds, the commlink going dead before any of the operatives have any chance to answer.

         It takes a long moment for anyone to speak let alone move, and it’s Punk who once again breaks the silence. “Let’s go,” is all he says.

         The four agents finally manage to move away from their marks, who still show no signs of responding. No one really speaks as they exit the building and return to their escort vehicles, which are just as they left them. Punk retreats to his own vehicle, but Seth steps forward before he can get away. “Sir—” he starts and almost immediately regrets it, but Punk stops anyway.

         “Seth?” Punk asks expectantly, even though he looks about as tired as Seth himself feels.

         But he pushes through. “What’s going to happen to them?”

         Punk looks back at the building, then to his operatives. He heaves a sigh. “We’ll talk about it back at the base, alright?”

         It’s a woefully unsatisfying answer, but Seth leaves it be, chewing on his lip to avoid saying something he’ll regret. The four of them finally part ways, the three Shield members piling into the back of the car. They drive off, and the atmosphere resembles a lot how they felt before they took the mission, apprehensive and well….just not good. Seth finally removes his mask and looks down at it, shifting it in his hand and absently staring at the skull pattern. How long the three of them sit like that in silence, Seth isn’t sure. But finally, finally, Reign’s manages to break the silence. “You alright?”

         Seth almost opens his mouth to answer, but Ambrose beats him to it. Seth finally manages to pull his eyes up and away from his mask to look at Ambrose, who is practically scowling and fidgeting with a little cube, not taking his eyes off the thing. “Didn’t feel right.”

         Seth blinks, both at the thing in Ambrose’s hands and at what he said. Seth manages a wry laugh, and the others look at him, Reigns slightly less neutral than normal, and Ambrose frowning like he just stepped in something unpleasant. “For once we’re in agreement.”

         Ambrose stops his fidgeting, his eyes as sharp as his tone. “No, Ryback had it coming, I don’t give a shit about him. Cena though? Even Punk looked like he didn’t want to do it,” He says, unprovoked of anything. It’s not like Seth said he’s glad Punk beat up Cena, geez.

         “Gotta do what ya gotta do?” Reigns asks, and Seth doesn’t know whether or not he means it rhetorically.

         Gotta do what you gotta do indeed.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies, gentlemen, and all of you who are outside or in between, as of writing this, RAW after Hell in a Cell has happened, and I am eternally crying, because the boys are back together.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I want to thank you all very much for your kudos as well as all of your lovely comments. I repeatedly read them because they're so nice and they're such good motivation to continue writing this fic. I'm sorry I haven't answered any specifically because anything I could say wouldn't be adequate and would probably just equate to key smashing intermittent with several variations of, 'thank you'. Know that I am ever grateful and I can't wait to continue this story!
> 
>  
> 
> Ah yes, those after mission jitters.

***

        “They’re gonna ask us if what we wanna do,” Dean grouses as they slowly make their way into the WWE main building. The early morning sun is shining brightly now, and it’s giving Dean a fucking headache as he squints at it.

        “Yeah,” Roman replies, and Dean isn't sure the Samoan just said something to say something or if he's actually agreeing with Dean.

       “What are we gonna say?” Dean asks, and Roman just shrugs, pushing open another door rather nonchalantly with his shoulder. Gee, that's fucking helpful.

        Rollins follows in after Dean, and Roman falls in after him. “What _can_ we say? Can we even afford refuse something like this?” Rollins asks, gesturing as he speaks. “Who knows when we’ll ever get an opportunity like this again??”

        Dean rolls his eyes, “What, beating our coworkers for slipping up?” He snarks. “Nobody is fucking perfect, Rollins, not even Triple H.”

        “ _Hunter Hearst Helmsley_ —” Rollins corrects, and it makes Dean scowl. He knows what the man’s fucking name is, he ain’t stupid. “— _himself_ chose us for this job, out of all of the other operatives in the company, he chose _us_ . We’re rookies and he believes we’re the best people for the job. That’s _important_.”

        God he hates it when Rollins talks to him like he’s fucking stupid. Thing is, is that he _knows_ that this is important. He _knows_ that they’re gonna ask what the three of them want to do, and it’s going to be a decision that’s gonna change everything about what they do in WWE. He _knows_ and that’s why he’s _asking_ . They need to talk about it, as a team, and that’s something that Rollins doesn’t seem to understand. They have to be all three of them together on this, or not at all. It’s not going to work if the three of them have dissenting views on the subject, they won’t be able to work together. That’s what it all comes down to, what Punk has asked of them, and Rollins can’t seem to get it through his thich skull that _that’s_ why Dean is asking in the first place.

        “We ain’t rookies.” Dean adds aloud, on principal.

        “Jesus, _fine_ , rookies in _this_ company, but are you even listening?” Rollins stops walking and it forces Dean to stop too even though he just wants to go ahead and get this fucking meeting over and done with already. If you were to ask him, _Rollins_ is the one who isn’t listening. “I don’t think we can afford to turn him down.”

        “Triple H ain’t the end all be all to this company,” Dean replies with a tight scowl, squeezing and tensing his knuckles so they’ll crack. He’s not as keen on punching Rollins in the face as he was earlier, but hey, the night is still young. Or day, as it were.

        Rollins sighs, and mutters, “Might as well be,” underneath his breath, like Dean can’t hear him.

        “Look, what pisses you off about this? The points that Heyman made are valid,” Rollins says, gesturing with outstretched arms. “Injustice and insubordination within the company can become a _serious_ problem.”

        Dean sighs and scuffs his boot against the tile floor, not bothered whether or not he leaves a mark. He crosses his arms over his chest. “If the missions are about guys who actually fucking deserve it, then I’m fine. Like I said, Ryback is a piece of shit sometimes,” he shrugs. “But I ain’t gonna keep it on my conscious about guys who don’t fucking deserve it.”

        Rollins gives him a look, and replies with a tinge of exasperation and exhaustion in his voice. “Well who gets to decide who deserves it?”

        The question makes Dean scowl. For one, he doesn’t like it in the first place because it’s a loaded question if there ever was one, and for two...Rollins has a point, and as a rule he doesn’t like that. “Sure as hell ain’t me,” he responds softly, keeping his gaze to the floor.

        “We have to say yes,” Rollins insists, even though his tone is weak.

        Dean looks up at him again. “Do we?”

        “Let’s talk to the boss,” Roman’s voice interjects their little argument. He put a hand on both Dean and Rollins’ shoulders. “Take it a step at a time.”

 

        Unfortunately, each step takes them closer and closer to a decision that Dean doesn’t really want to make. He hates this, hates the politics, just wants to do the thing that he’s good at because he’s good at it and he knows it. They check in their weapons, and are escorted back to the conference room from earlier that day. Upon entering, Dean sees that Punk made it there before them, and he doesn’t look any worse for wear. He doesn’t look any better per say, but it’s something at least. Triple H is seated at the head of the table, just as before, and Dean would think the man hasn’t left the building were it not for the fact that he's wearing a different colored suit, shirt, and tie than the last time they met. The big man gestures for them to sit without saying a word, before threading his fingers together on the table space in front of him. Punk is still standing, off against the wall just as he was before, and the sense of déjà vu Dean feels is entirely warranted. Before any of them can speak or plead their case or do anything, Triple H speaks.

        “Punk—” he begins, glancing over at the man, his tone slightly off in a way that makes a little shiver of _wrong_ flutter up Dean’s spine, “—has asked that due to the nature of our request and the subsequent mission, that you three be given a few days to think over the proposition.” Dean’s eyes flicker down to Triple H’s hands clasped together on the table. They’re tense, but not overtly so, not enough to really tip off to Dean exactly how angry the man in front of him is. He’s clearly not happy, that much Dean can gleam.

        But they’ve been given time to think about it. Dean usually isn’t one to dwell on stuff, but he’s never really had to take into account other people. For as long as he can remember, it’s really only been him. He’s had to take care of himself, and he’s been focused on his own self and what’s best for _him_. Yet now, with this Stable and their position and what the big guys in the company are asking of them, this is something that’s going to require more than Dean’s usual approach of, “I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.”

        He doesn’t care that that isn’t the phrase, he likes it damnit.

        The tension from before seems to slip off of Dean’s shoulders, and his brain is officially done thinking about it for now. They’ve been given a couple of days, and Dean is ready to go home and fucking _sleep_.

        “Thank you very much, Sir.” Rollins says curtly in that ‘goody-two-shoes’ way he’s so irritatingly good at.

        “You are dismissed,” Triple H replies, and he doesn’t offer a hand to them as they move to leave. In fact, he doesn’t even stand. He glances over at Punk, and it makes Dean’s stomach drop out a little bit when their mentor doesn’t follow after them.

        Dean slows. “Boss-?”

        “Go.”

        Dean frowns and allows himself to be pushed out by Roman, but he still watches as the door closes behind them, and he sees Punk push off the wall and move to take a seat where they were just seated.

        Shit.

 

        Fuck, fuck fuck. “He’s getting his ass chewed out because of us,” Dean says, pacing back and forth in the locker room, unable to focus on anything other than the look Punk had given him before the door had shut. He’s still in his gear, his hair curled with sweat and falling over his eyes even as he tries to push it out of his vision.

        “How do you know?” Rollins asks, and what kind of stupid ass question is that? So Dean tells him so.

        “What kind of stupid ass question is that?”

        Rollins makes a face but goes back to placing his gear back into his locker, pointedly not watching Dean pace back and forth like a madman.

        “Punk’ll be fine,” Roman replies, tying his hair back up out of his face. “He convinced Triple H to give us an extension, he can handle it.”

        “He made a desperation move for our sakes because he doesn’t want us to do this,” Dean says, still pacing, but now starting to unravel the tapes on his hands just so he’ll have something to do with his hands other than run them through his hair. “I told you it’s a bad idea.”

        “Is this _still_ bugging you?” Rollins asks in disbelief. Dean stops in his tracks and glares fully at the shorter man.

        “This is _important_.”

        “So is taking on the injustices in the company, Ambrose. You don’t think _that’s_ important? That what we do, the people we work with, and we ourselves stay safe?” Rollins asks, placing his hands on his hips are glaring right back at Dean.

        It’s stupid, fucking stupid because he _does_ see the point Rollins and Heyman and pretty much everyone has been trying to make this whole time, he does. There’s just something deep down in his gut that’s making him second guess everything and he _hates_ it because second guessing himself isn’t something that happens to him a lot and just—he takes a deep breath before he can spiral any more down. He starts to pace again, albeit a little slower this time, and finally responds to Rollins. “I know, just still don’t feel right,” is all he can say.

        The man sighs, and at least he doesn’t sound irritated this time. “Well you heard Mr. Helmsley, we don’t have to decide for a couple of days,” he says, rubbing his hands over his face. “We should be lucky he’s even given us that long to think about it.”

        “We should be thanking Punk,” Dean responds, “For sticking his neck out for us.”

        “When we see him next,” Roman agrees with a nod.

 

***

        Dean thought that maybe he would feel better after sleeping. Executing an operation after a sleepless night had taken its toll, and even though he knew he probably wouldn't get a rather restful sleep, he thought that maybe he'd at least get a few hours in before his brain or something else inevitably woke him up.

        What he did not expect, however was to wake feeling worse. He blearily blinks his eyes open, and as his vision spins, he groans at the nausea it causes and slips his eyes shut again. His temples throb to the beat of his heart, and he groans again, curling in on himself and trying to escape the slivers of light that are shining through the window blinds. What in the world happened? It's like he got hit by a fucking truck.

        A knock on his door makes him bodily jerk, and forces another groan out of his throat. It was probably a first knock that had awoken him in the first place, but his brain was far too out of it to realize.

        "Dean?" Roman's voice calls softly through the door. At least he thinks it's Roman's. God it's like his brain is trying to swim through mud while being three sheets to the wind. It's a wonder he can even parse where the fuck he even is right now.

        His lack of answering must have concerned Roman, since a few seconds later, his door opens. "Dean?" Roman tries again, slightly louder.

        "M'wake," said man manages to reply, and God both their voices are too fucking loud. Roman says something, but to Dean it sounds like a garbled mess. He can't even open his eyes to look at the man for fear of throwing up at the room spinning. "Whuzzat?" He grumbles.

        Something touches his head and he must be really out of it only the fact that he doesn't jump out of his skin. At present all he has the energy to do is bodily jerk again, managing to crack his eyes open just a sliver to see that Roman has placed a hand to his forehead. "I said, 'what's going on?'" Roman replies, and thankfully, this time Dean's brain can understand it.

        Dean just chuckles weakly, his eyes slipping shut again. "Dunno."

        "You don't feel warm..." Roman muses, probably more to himself than anyone else. He removes his hand from Dean's forehead and the man notices the difference in temperature even if his brain can't really comprehend it.

        Shit. Well if he doesn't have a fever he can't really think of anything else that might be wrong with him, especially in the state that he's in. Something however in the back of his mind nags at him, nags that he's forgetting something. He groans and turns on his back, thanking the powers that be that the action doesn't cause the nausea building in his stomach to worsen any. He breathes out a deep sigh, trying to ignore the pain in his temples and think. There's something he's forgetting, and it's annoying. It's odd really. For a long time he had a hard time remembering things, a hard time focusing, a lot like now except without the vertigo and nausea and—shit.

        "R-Rome?" He asks softly, his voice croaking out of his throat.

        "Yeah?" Roman replies, just as softly after a moment of hesitation. He seems to have taken the hint and lowered his voice as to not bother Dean as much. Thank God.

        Dean tries to think and blearily flutter his eyes open again, just a sliver. "S'there—" he swallows. "Bottles...on the nigh'stand?"

        A few seconds of silence before Roman answers, "Yes?" with a tinge of question at the end.

        Dean gestures with his hand vaguely, staring at the ceiling and trying not to focus on how its spinning. "Wha’...what direction are they?"

        "Direction?" The Samoan asks, and Dean can practically feel the raised brow even though he's not looking at the other man.

        Dean groans and runs a hand over his face. Fucking words are fucking hard, fucking brain. He swallows thickly again. "They upside down?"

        Roman is silent for a long moment, long enough for Dean to turn his head just enough so he can see the man. Through spinning vision he sees the bigger man staring at the nightstand. He's changed since Dean last saw him, clothes-wise anyways. He's probably taken a shower too, his hair is pushed up out of his face and falling down his back. Dean blinks, it still looks damp. "No...they're right side up." He answers carefully.

        Dean cracks a wry smile through the pain. "That'll do it."

        Roman focuses his gaze back on Dean. "You take medication?"

        Dean might be hearing it wrong in his non-drugged out state—and how weird is the thought that NOT taking drugs would fuck him up this much—but the way the older man asked didn't sound accusatory, or hell, even smug. Many others in the past either had been amazed that he was still as weird as he was _on_ medication, or smug knowing that he even took medication, in an 'Ah, so that makes sense' kind of way that always gets under Dean's skin. At least with Dean's current mental state and Reigns' matter-of-fact way of speaking, he doesn't sound like he's doing anything other than asking. That's nice for once. "Mmyeah," Dean replies, but doesn't elaborate.

        "How many do you need?" Roman asks, and Dean hears the slight rattling of a bottle at the Samoan picks one up.

        Dean is grateful Roman doesn't ask the question as to whether or not he forgot to take his medication. It's obvious by his current state that he did. It's been a long while since he's forgotten to take them, and the flashback memory of him staring at the pill bottles before he left for the operation last night blares at him. Damn hindsight. "One each," He says, reaching his hand out.

        "Says to take 'em with water." Roman comments idly.

        "Would rather get 'em in me sooner than later," Dean replies, wiggling his fingers in a 'give me them' motion.

        "You can wait two minutes for me to get you a glass of water," Roman says, standing and heading out of the room.

        Dean watches him leave. "Are you sure about that?" He tries to joke. Now that he's woken up some he's slightly less disoriented than he was, but not by much. The lack of medication in his system still making his brain all loopy. He struggles to shift up enough so that he's sitting, and has to close his eyes and swallow thickly as another wave of nausea crashes over him. He sits for few moments, breathing and trying to keep his stomach in check. Throwing up would only make everything worse. Finally, when he feels like he won't immediately hurl if he so much as moves, he opens his eyes and goes to reach for his pills. "Fuck," he grumbles.

        Roman took the bottles with him, the bastard.

 

        Whether or not it's two minutes or an hour later, Dean really can't tell with how scrambled his brain feels. After an eternity but also after no time at all Roman returns to his room. At least that's what Dean figures the door opening sound means. He blinks opens his eyes; when did he even close them? Roman in fact was the person at his door, and Dean blinks wearily at the man. He's got a glass of water in one hand and a plate in the other and Dean can't really fathom why he'd have a plate even though the answer is certainly obvious.

        Roman must read his look since he answers. "Says to take it with food, too." He gestures with the plate in his hand. "Toast."

        Dean struggles to sit up more, frowning at the older man. "Since when do we have bread?"

        Roman sets the glass of water down on the nightstand and offers the plate to Dean. "Went to the store, now eat." He gestures with the plate again, the unspoken 'take the fucking food' very plain in his eyes.

        Dean grumbles but takes the plate anyway, setting it in his lap. On it are two pieces of toast, just like Roman said. It's not as if he thought Roman was lying, but yeah...the big man made him toast. It's even cut diagonally into triangles, arguably the best way to cut bread, according to Dean. Said man lets out a huff of a laugh. "I ain't a sick kid. I should be fine once the meds kick in."

        Roman gazes just above Dean’s eyes for a long moment and takes the pill bottles out of his jacket pocket, offering them both over to Dean one at a time. The messy blonde takes them both, but his hands don't seem to want to cooperate with the child proof tops and after about a minute of struggling to open the bottle, his frustration ever mounting, Roman offers a hand. Dean chews angrily on his lip, staring at Roman for a long moment. Without a word, he hands the bottles back over and absolutely does NOT pout.

        Roman opens them easily, shaking out a pill each before handing them back over to Dean. Dean watches how the Samoan carefully places the bottles upside down on the nightstand, and a little tick of a smirk pulls at his lips for a second. Reaching for the water with a grunt, Dean easily tosses both pills into his mouth and gulps down the water, surprised at how thirsty he is. He drains the entire glass, and ignores the smug little smirk gracing Roman's lips. "What you parenting me for?" He says, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand and setting the glass back down on the table.

        The smile on Roman's lips turns a little rueful. "I ain't your Dad."

        Dean snickers, crossing his legs under the blanket and leaning back against the wall behind him. "Naw, you're definitely more like a Mom. Great big Mama Bear Roman," he teases in a sing song voice, his eyes slipping closed.

        "Shut up and eat your toast."

***

        Left, right, left, right, left, right. The rhythmic sounds of his feet hitting the pavement are just enough to zone him out as he runs. He’s tired, tired as all hell and wants nothing more than to go back home and sleep, but he knows if he doesn’t get the nagging thoughts out of his head he won’t sleep anyways. So he decides to take a jog around the neighborhood, not only to get a good scope of the immediate area, but to try to clear his head. He thanks the powers that be that the temperature hasn’t dropped enough to warrant any really heavy clothing to do so.

        Last night and all that it entailed still rings clearly in his mind, and his brain can’t help but go over every detail, from the assignment all the way up to Mr. Helmsley dismissing them and sending them out without Punk in tow.

        Seth shakes his head as he runs, the motion making him a little dizzy as he rounds a corner. He huffs as he dodges past a few people meandering on the sidewalk. The workout is nothing like his usual gym bound ones, but there’s something about running around out in the actual world that is refreshing. Running to an actual destination rather than running in place on a treadmill is far less mind numbing in his opinion. He rounds another corner, paying attention to the street name before slowing down to a walk so that he can safely drink some water and not choke himself while doing so. He takes a hearty swig or two from his water bottle, panting as he examines the intersection and the adjacent streets, trying to commit them to memory before he sets off again.

        He can also admit to himself that this is another excuse not to have to exist in the same space with his co-workers after the mission. It’s probably smarter that they go over and try to work out what happened all together so that they can figure out whether or not they’re going to take Mr. Helmsley up on the proposition that Seth is still adamant that they cannot turn down.

        With another heave of breath and a push off the pavement, he’s off running again. By his calculations, there should be three different ways to get back to their place from where he is, and he absolutely intends to take the longest route home. He tries valiantly to push some of his sweaty curls that fell out of his bun earlier behind his ear so they aren’t in his eyes as he runs, but they simply fall back limply in his vision or plaster themselves to his sweaty forehead. He zeroes in on the rhythmic pounding of his feet on the pavement and tries once again to clear his head of his worries before he returns back home and it all comes crashing back to him.

        It’s weird to call the new place home with how much it feels like the exact opposite. The year or so they all worked in Developmental wasn’t home, and this just feels like a smaller extension of that. Seth misses the short lived freedom he had, living away from the people he spent nearly every hour of every day with, being his own person and not having to be one hundred percent all the time under the watchful eyes of WWE.

        He sighs, this may not be what he initially signed up for, but he’s here for a reason, and he’s not about to allow himself to give up just because things aren’t panning out like he thought they would. If he works hard, if he keeps at it, he can get through this. ‘ _Even though you’re actively avoiding the things that you need to work through_ ’ his brain unhelpfully supplies.

        “Could you give me a day please?” He mumbles under his heaving breaths.

 

***

        As Roman absently cleans the plate from Dean’s toast, the door clicks and unlocks. Roman takes a breath and relaxes his muscles as Seth steps through, still panting from his jog. He’s going to have to get used to people coming in and out without his knowledge. “Hello?” Seth asks as he rounds the corner, probably investigating the rushing water sound. Roman slips the plate into the dishwasher alongside the plates inside.

        “Hey,” He replies, flipping the door to the dishwasher up and closing it the rest of the way with a gentle bump his hip.“Run good?”

        Seth doesn’t respond for a second, then as Roman glances up at him, he seems to find his voice. “Uh, yeah. Was fine.”

        He seems rather distracted, not looking at Roman as he curls pieces of sweaty hair behind his ear. He’s got his water bottle still clutched in his hand even though it’s empty, holding on to it like a like a lifeline or something. Roman presses the handle on the sink with an elbow, reaching for the dishcloth hanging over the cupboard door below the sink so he can dry his hands. “Got groceries if you’re hungry,” he says. “Nothing too fancy, just some staples.”

        Seth doesn’t answer again, and Roman just barely contains a sigh before glancing up at the other man again. If Seth is going to play silent to him he’s just gonna fucking ignore him then. The double checking thing Seth’s making him do is getting fairly damn old fairly fast. “Thanks,” Seth finally snaps out of it again. “Where’s Ambrose?” He asks quietly after a moment of hesitation.

        Roman replaces the dishtowel to its place before looking at Seth for longer than a glance this time. Really? _‘Ambrose?’_ Roman actually sighs this time and crosses his arms over his chest. Seth blinks at him, making a tight lipped face as if he sees that Roman is about to lecture him. Roman isn’t, at least not much. “ _Dean_ ,” Roman emphasizes, because honestly, the both of them should get over themselves and use their damn first names. “Is sleeping.”

        Seth blinks again and has the decency to at least look a _little_ embarrassed by using Dean’s last name to address him. “Still?” He eventually asks, glancing over his shoulder towards the hallway. Oddly enough, the tone doesn’t sound irritated, but not particularly concerned either. Maybe just curious? Yeah, that’s probably right, Rollins is too curious about stuff for his own  good.

        “He’s not feeling well,” Roman replies blandly, but doesn’t elaborate. If Seth wants to know the specifics he can wake Dean up his damn self and ask him.

        “He said he didn’t sleep before the mission,” Seth mumbles under his breath, as if Roman can’t hear him. He snaps out of his little daze however and looks back at Roman, who raises a brow at him. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

        Roman shrugs. He already took a shower earlier, so he’s good. The little nugget of information Seth shared however gives him pause. Of course he’s known about Dean’s poor sleeping habits, more than once in Developmental he’d find Dean in the wee hours of the morning with tremendous bags under the eyes, either vibrating with seemingly inexhaustible energy, or looking as though he’s ready to drop. Never did let it stop him from putting his all into everything however, so it never really concerned Roman overmuch. Now that they’re teammates though, that could be an entirely different story. Roman makes a little note in his mind while he watches Seth wander off towards his room without so much as another word to keep an eye on Dean in case his insomnia issue really does start to become an issue.

 

***

        The hot water feels like a fucking godsend, sluicing over his worn out muscles enough to make him moan slightly underneath his breath. The lack of sleep, the exhaustion from the mission along with the exhaustion from his run all culminate underneath the stream to make his mind fuzzy and warm and completely and utterly drained. He doesn’t even have enough energy to think about anything other than the hum of the shower and the water cascading over him. However, all good things must come to an end eventually, and Seth finally lazily blinks open his eyes, unable to recall when exactly he closed them and how long he had been standing under the scalding downpour of water. Thankfully he remembered to grab his specific shampoo, conditioner and body wash before climbing into the shower. With methodic movements he washes his hair, the calming herbal scent relaxing him further, the smell giving him a gentle feeling and reminder of home. With a deep sigh, he rinses through his locks for several long minutes, before dousing his body in body wash, rubbing it across his skin to scrub away the sweat and grime from their mission and the subsequent run afterwards.

        He scrubs a hand across his genitals in a quick perfunctory manner, and even though they give an interested twitch, his brain is far too exhausted to even entertain the idea of pursuing anything more than a few lazy strokes that cause a sleepy little moan to leak from the back of his throat.

        Finally, only due to the fact that he thinks he might actually fall asleep where he stands and he doesn’t want to be known as the asshole who takes particularly long showers, he turns of the water and steps out of the little warm cubicle he had made for himself. He grabs the towel he brought off the counter and wraps it easily around his waist, reaching up to wipe the condensation off the mirror. Geez he looks exhausted. There are light bags under his eyes, and with his dripping hair going every which way, he honestly kind of looks like a mess. He chuckles, smearing his hand over the mirror in larger swipes, revealing more of himself through the haze of steam and water droplets. He flicks a switch on the wall, and the vent hums to life, slowly but surely wicking away the heavy humidity in the small space.

 

        Dean grumbles, trying to bury himself deeper into his blankets just so he can get a few more precious moments of well needed rest before he's dragged kicking and screaming back into the waking world. His brain is still fuzzy, still half asleep but thankfully not in the bleary lack of drug induced state he was in earlier. His brain half supplies him the knowledge that the drugs are in fact working, and he should be thankful he remembered to take them before he got any worse. However, not many other thoughts run through his head as he tries valiantly to snuggle himself back into unconsciousness. Unfortunately for him however, someone seems to think that him sleeping isn't important, and if Dean were in a more lucid state of mind, he would bet fucking money on who it was.

        First his hears the shower hiss to life, the sudden noise of the water making him jolt almost into consciousness. Thankfully, the repetitive rushing sound of the water continues long enough for his brain to slip back into a half fitful sleep, just as one does when they sleep through a rainstorm, the water simply a background track in his mind.

        The second time he awakens is when the pleasant background noise suddenly stops, and a few moments later, the bathroom vent whirs to life in a much louder and far less pleasant buzzing. It's not originating near his head thankfully, but something about the pitch of it ticks the 'do not like' center of Dean's brain and pulls him further and further away from blessed rest. Even so, maybe he can still salvage even the fewest of seconds more—

        The droning to life of a sound even louder than the vent is the final straw. Even though he isn't fully awake there's no chance in hell he's going to get back to sleep now, and he flings off the covers in a rage, throwing his body up and out of bed before his brain can really catch up to him. Whoever is being loud as shit while he's trying to sleep is getting their fucking asses kicked and there are no two ways around it. Dean practically kicks his door open, stomping next door to the bathroom—because he's angry dammit—and pounds his fist on the door because apparently this house has lost all semblance of fucking silence. When there's no immediate response to his banging, he does it again, wordlessly demanding to speak to the asshole he's sure is on the other side of the door. Finally, the door creaks open, and a still very wet , very half naked and very confused Seth Rollins is on the other side, a still running blow dryer in one of his hands. They both blink at each other and Dean momentarily forgets his anger, staring at the thing in Rollins' hands like he's never seen one before.

        Said man frowns at Dean and flicks it off. "What?" He angrily says, even scowling a little bit.

        Dean could say anything at this point really, about how Rollins was being a fucking jackass making all that noise while he's trying to sleep, but the thing that actually comes out of his mouth is, "You use a fucking _hair dryer_?"

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spending 200 Dollars on a VIP ticket plus a flight to New Orleans just so I can hug Dean and tell him to get well soon is a perfectly rational thing to do, right? (THIS IS A JOKE I'M JOKING)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter was written before the release of Enzo Amore. For obvious reasons, he will not be featured in the rest of this fic, thank you for understanding.

***

        The half blonde man looks at him like he’s lost his fucking mind. It would probably make sense to Dean as to why if he was fully cognitive, but as of this moment, it just makes him more flabbergasted and angry at Rollins.

        “Are you fucking kidding me, you use a hair dryer?” Dean reiterates.

        Rollins scowls. “Why the fuck do _you_ care?”

        “Why the fuck do you use a _hair dryer_?”

        “I’m not surprised you don’t know since it’s obvious by the mop of hair on your own head that you hardly even know what a hair brush is,” Rollins says rather scathingly, a little smirk of triumph on his lips that Dean would love to just punch off.

        Dean rolls his eyes and doesn’t even fucking touch that because he knows that Rollins is goading him into a different thing and he needs to stay focused.“Yeah well I would greatly appreciate it—” Dean says, sarcasm dripping from his words, “—If you would be so kind as to limit your loud fucking noises when there's someone _trying_ to sleep next door.”

        Rollins frowns, “It’s past noon!”

        Dean would really love to point out that he isn’t stupid, but he hadn’t really known what time it was until now—still really doesn’t but that’s not the point—and pointing anything like that out to Rollins hadn’t worked in the past, so why should he even try now? He’d also love to remind Rollins of how little sleep he had had the night before, but he has the wherewithal to know that Roman is still somewhere in the apartment, and with the little shouting match he and Rollins are having at the moment, the Samoan is bound to be able to hear every word. He doesn't need to bring out Mama Roman any more today than he already has, and he _seriously_ does not need a lecture on sleeping because he _knows_ he’s not good at it and doesn’t need a reminder at this current moment. “You knew full well I was asleep! Do you have any common courtesy—”

        “Shut up or get a room,” Roman calls from the living room, looking up from a book he’s reading. “You’re being intentionally shitty to one another and it’s getting on my nerves.”

        “We’ve argued before,” Dean reasons, and Rollins nods along with him. “Lots of times.”

        Roman just gives them both a pointed look. “You’re arguing over a nap and a hair dryer. You’re just looking for reasons to be nasty to each other instead of trying to work out your differences _like teammates and adults should_.” He emphasizes before turning his attention back to his book.

        All the anger rushes out of Dean, his face flushing as he realizes how actually stupid the both of them are actually being. He glances at Rollins, who must think the floor is the most interesting thing on the planet with how intensely he’s staring at it. “Did we just get scolded like a bunch of kids?” He asks under his breath, a small smirk tugging his lips at the irony of the situation.

        Rollins glances up at Dean from under his eyelashes, cracks a tiny smile, and wow, his eyelashes are _long._ He looks away and his smile drops a little. “Sorry, I didn’t do it intentionally” he says, and Dean can hardly believe his ears. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m still not used to having roommates.”

        “We were in Developmental for like a year.”

        Rollins rolls his eyes and gives him a look. “That’s different and you know it.”

        Dean snorts, scratching at the back of his head, before turning to slink away. “Whatever, you say~” He says in the sing song tone that never ceases to get on Rollins’ nerves.

        The two tone haired man just snorts back at him before pointedly closing the bathroom door.

        Dean scoffs at the door as the hair dryer starts up again, even though Rollins probably can’t even hear him do it. He steps lazily over to the living room where he plops down on the other love seat, his legs splayed over one arm and his head lolled against the other. Roman doesn’t react other than sparing him a small glance, but Dean looks at him upside down. “Didn’t figure you for a recreational reader,” he says eventually. Roman doesn’t respond, so Dean continues to speak, jiggling one of his feet as it dangles. “I mean, I could probably count the amount of books I’ve read recreationaly in my life on two hands, and maybe one of my feet. Probably, if I really thought about it.”

        Roman visibly lets out a heavy sigh, placing a beat up bookmark into where he was reading and making an obvious move to put the book on the couch beside him. He frowns at Dean. “You feeling better?” He asks, his tone a little sharp.

        Dean half shrugs due to his difficult positioning. “Guess so.”

        “Are you going to let me go back to my book?”

        Dean makes a face. “You do that during your free time?”

        Roman’s face falls flat. “What do _you_ do during your free time?”

        Dean shrugs again and adjusts his position so that he’s staring up at the ceiling now. “Dunno. Eat, sleep, work out, watch tv.” He glances back at Roman. “Masturbate.”

        “Gross.”

        “You asked.”

        “Why don’t you go work out then?” Roman asks, reaching for his book again.

        Dean groans. That is like the last thing he wants to do. “Think ‘m sore from the whole Ryback thing.”

        Roman stops reaching for his book. “You were probably tense the whole time so you strained your muscles,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, his face still relatively flat as he stares at Dean.

        The smaller man gestures to his head. “Also kinda rammed my face into his face.”

        Roman’s face finally breaks some and he huffs out a small chuckle. “Was pretty cool though. So was your takedown.”

        Dean perks up. “Yeah? Been wanting to break that baby out for a while.” He sits up more correctly in the chair. “And what about your full body tackle, where the hell did that come from?”

        Roman’s lips curl in a tiny smirk and he shrugs. “He needed to be taken down, and sometimes fancy moves aren’t the thing that’s gonna do it.”

        Dean nods vigorously in agreement. “We sure as hell took him out alright.”

        Both of them fall quiet after that, however, Roman doesn’t reach for his book. He sort of just sits there and watches Dean. It’s not really something that normally bothers Dean too much, he’s been scrutinized before, by superiors, civilians, or otherwise, but Roman is different. He’s still not the best at reading the bigger man, and it’s still a little frustrating to him. For not the first time in the past couple of days, he wishes they could skip over all of the actual living together part so they can just be better teammates already. “You’d think with all the technology and stuff we have we’d’ve invented time travel by now,” he says absently.

        “We work in espionage Dean, not Science Fiction,” Roman reminds with no mocking behind it.

        “How cool would that be though?” Dean asks, shifting on his side so he can look at Roman more comfortably.

        Roman crosses one of his legs over the other. “You’d wanna go back in time?”

        Dean shakes his head. “Oh hell no. Knowing me I’d fuck up something and like flies would rule the Earth.”

        “Why flies?”

        “They are gross and abundant.”

 

        The two of them sit in silence for long moments, neither really moving, and Dean isn’t really enjoying the silence any more than he hopes Roman does. Now that his brain is back online from his little issue earlier, he can’t help but think about what’s going to happen. It’s sucks, he hates it, but his brain has this thing where it will walk circles around an issue until it resolves itself, but more often than not Dean will actually go out and resolve it himself even if there’s consequences just so he can get his damn brain to shut up. Even he can see however, there’s nothing more he can do here but talk. He’s shifted to his back again, staring up at the ceiling. His thumbs tap on his thighs and he doesn’t look at Roman before he finally breaks the silence. “Thanks,” he says. “For earlier,” he adds, gesturing with his hands.

        “That happen often?” Roman asks.

        Dean shakes his head. “Not usually. It’s stupid—” he stops himself, actually chewing on his lip. Roman doesn’t say anything, and the silence actually presses Dean to continue more than anything. “Before the mission, I looked at my pill bottles, looked right at them and thought about taking them. But then I didn’t. I figured we wouldn’t be gone too long and I could take them when we got back.” He sighs. “I second guessed myself, and it ended up biting me in the ass.”

        Roman doesn’t respond for a long moment, doesn’t even really make a sound, and Dean just barely resists the urge to glance over and make sure the man is still there and he isn’t sitting there talking to himself like an idiot. “Is that why this is bothering you so much?” He doesn’t elaborate on what ‘this’ is, he doesn’t need to.

        Dean shrugs. “Probably part of it,” he admits softly. He hates it, but he keeps talking. “I’ve trusted my gut and my instincts most of my life, and if I’m honest, there are only a few times where that’s come back to bite me in the ass. There’ve been far more times where I second guessed myself, or I didn’t go with what my instincts are screamed at me to do, and it’s all come falling down on me.”

        “And you’re afraid that’s what's going to happen here.” Roman replies, his voice still calm, not judging or pushing still, still so monotone and lacking any real indication on what he thinks about what Dean’s telling him.

        It’s, it’s damn refreshing really, just having an ear to vent to that won’t argue back with him when he’s trying to make his point. “I guess.” he says. “Thing is, I know what Rollins is saying. Triple H….he _is_ the big man on campus, pretty much the biggest power in the company, and he’s….he’s giving us a chance. He’s offering us something we s _houldn’t_ refuse, but everything from the mission, to how Punk looked, to my gut instincts is telling me this is a bad idea.”

        “Why do you think your gut is saying that?”

        “I don’t know,” Dean admits. “I don’t have the right or authority to judge anyone for what _they_ do or whether or not it's a danger to what _we_ do.” He runs his hands through his hair, scrubbing at the locks as if it will rub against his brain and make it stop. “Fuck, I never thought that I would have to deal with shit like this! I’m just a guy who’s good at his job, why can’t they just let me do it!”

        More silence from Roman. Then, softly. “You _are_ good at your job, that’s why they picked you. That’s why they picked all three of us.” Dean sees him gesture out of the corner of his eyes. “Our strengths and weaknesses work together well and that’s what makes us a good team.”

        Why don’t either of them _get it_ ? As much as Dean wishes it were that fucking easy, it _isn’t_. He doesn’t have a problem with beating people up, hell that’s what he does for a living. But their own guys, just because their boss told them to? It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. “There are people who are shitty at this job,” he says. “But I can already tell there are gonna be guys we hurt that don’t deserve it, but we’re gonna have to do it anyways. I don’t know if I can live with that.”

        “But who gets to decide who deserves it?” Roman replies, using the same words as Rollins before. He’s probably doing it on purpose, the asshole.

        “Ain’t that the million dollar question,” Dean grumbles.

        If feels like their back at square one. This whole fucking debacle just keeps running this cyclical course where no matter how many times Dean talks about it he always ends up back at the beginning: he has no idea what the hell they’re going to do. If it were up to Rollins, they would absolutely said yes, they would have already said yes, and for not the first time Dean is fucking thankful that Rollins ain’t the one in charge. Roman, well, Roman he isn’t sure about. He’d like to believe that Roman is made of a little bit better moral fiber than that, but he isn’t fucking sure.

        “What do you think about all this?” Dean asks, tapping his thumbs against his thighs again. He resists the urge to jiggle his leg, just so he doesn’t look so much like a nervous wreck.

        Another bout of silence that Dean hopes is Roman actually thinking about his answer ticks by before Roman finally does speak. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and lacing his fingers together. “Think of it this way. Are you going to allow the actions of shitty people—people who believe that what _they_ want is more important than what _we_ do—dictate your future?” He asks, and it sounds half rhetorical, and Dean doesn’t even get a chance to answer before Roman continues. “The company _knows_ what they need to do to keep what we do as safe as possible. If they didn’t, I don’t believe it would have lasted as long as it has. I know it’s hard for you, Dean, but you have to admit that there are going to be parts of this job that you don’t like, parts that don’t feel right but are in the long run going to benefit you. I’m not sure I agree with his methods, but Triple H knows what he’s doing, at least for the most part.”

        Dean blinks at the older man. Despite not being on board one hundred percent with what he’s saying, it does resonate with him. He _doesn’t_ want other people’s shitty decisions to affect him, especially if it’s them being selfish. He chews at his lip, and begrudgingly admits to himself that Roman’s right. Sometimes he forgets that what he’s doing is a job, and there isn’t a person on planet Earth who likes absolutely everything that their job entails. He looks at Roman, who is still looking at him, and cracks a smile.“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you speak at once ever since I met you.”

        Roman seems to release the breath and tension he was holding, and leans back to rest against the couch. “I’ve used up all my word quota for the day, don’t get used to it.”

        Dean snickers.“Did you just make a joke?”

        Roman picks his book back up, unable to hide the sly smile on his lips. “Even if I did, no one would really believe you.”

        Dean let’s out a sigh that sags his entire body, dwelling in it before swinging himself up and out of the chair. To Roman’s credit, he doesn’t even seem to notice, even though Dean knows that that isn’t the case. “Think there’s any good coffee places around here?”

        Roman doesn’t look up from his book. “Only one way to find out.”

        Dean snickers again. “Guess I’m going for a walk, then.”

        As he meanders out of the living room and towards the front door, he hears, “Take your keys and your phone, please.”

        Dean snorts and swerves his direction towards his room. “Sure, sure, sure.”

 

***

        Seth had stopped drying his hair ages ago, even changed his clothes, and if he weren’t working in espionage, he might feel a little worse about eavesdropping. However Ambrose and Reigns aren’t exactly having a secret conversation, are they? He leans against the counter top, his arms behind him for support, and just listens.

_“Think of it this way. Are you going to allow the actions of shitty people—people who believe that what they want is more important than what we do—dictate your future? The company knows what they need to do to keep what we do as safe as possible. If they didn’t, I don’t believe it would have lasted as long as it has. I know it’s hard for you, Dean, but you have to admit that there are going to be parts of this job that you don’t like, parts that don’t feel right but are in the long run going to benefit you. I’m not sure I agree with his methods, but Triple H knows what he’s doing, at least for the most part.”_

        Shit, it’s not like he didn’t explain that _exact_ thing to Ambrose earlier. Ambrose’s voice replies a few moments later. _“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you speak at once ever since I met you.”_

        Seth snorts and shakes his head. Leave it to Ambrose to make a fucking joke out of everything. The rest of the exchange is rather lighthearted considering the subject of their conversation, and Seth idly listens as Ambrose wanders past the bathroom, rummages through his room—presumably for his phone and keys—and walks past the bathroom again. Only when the front door slams shut does he push himself off the counter to exit the bathroom.

        Without any bullshit or preamble, he enters the living room, where Reigns is still reading. Had he even put the book down to talk to Ambrose? He decides it doesn’t really matter. “You think he’s going to agree?”

        Reigns doesn’t even look surprised that he had been listening, and if he was, he hides it well. He carefully places a battered bookmark into the book and sets it down on the coffee table in front of him. “I don’t know,” he says. “He seems more comfortable about the idea, but that could change. I told him the truth, and if that doesn’t convince him, then nothing is going to.”

        Seth makes a face. “He’s going to—”

        “Leave it for now.” Reigns interrupts. Seth opens his mouth to speak again, but the Samoan interrupts again. “Just _leave it._ ” The look in his eyes matches his sharp tone, and Seth mouth clicks shut.

        They stare each other down, Reigns just daring Seth to speak about it again, and Seth almost does, but Reign’s little comment from earlier about he and Ambrose not acting like adults sounds in his brain, and he sighs, letting it go, _for now_.

 

***

        Dean’s kinda glad he brought his jacket, the November weather really starting to turn quickly. It’s not so much the actual temperature outside, but the fucking _wind_. Wind like this don’t happen in Cincy. How Rollins even fucking ran around in this in what he assumes was a tank and shorts is fucking beyond him. He shrugs into his jacket a little further, walking down the street without any real direction other than maybe finding a coffee place as he walks. He doesn’t really pay attention to the street signs as he walks, just to the directions and the landmarks he passes as he goes. So far a lot of walking, two lefts, a right, a statue, a little art gallery, a dog grooming shop, and several department stores and restaurants. “Coffee, coffee, coffee,” he mumbles underneath his breath. Sure he could probably have made coffee back at the apartment, but he doesn’t do black coffee, and besides, walking around outside and taking in the surrounding area isn’t a bad idea. S’probably what Rollins was doing earlier on his run.

        Dean shakes his head and chuckles wryly. Only Rollins would go on a fucking run after a mission on little sleep in this weather. “Guy’s a fucking masochist, I swear.”

        Dean’s quest for coffee takes him past a corner deli and he actually hears his stomach growl as he walks past. Hey, nothin’ wrong with getting a sandwich on the go, is there? Besides, it hits him that last night’s spaghetti and the toast Roman made him earlier were the last things he ate, and his stomach one again verbally reminds him that he should eat something, like _now_.

 

        As Dean strolls out of the deli, sandwich in hand, he stops on the street corner, idly eating as he glances in all directions, trying to decide which direction would be the best way to go to obtain some coffee. As he looks, a tourist looking couple set their bags down on the bench a couple of yards away from him and turn their backs to them, talking excitedly about something or other and taking pictures.

        The sidewalk where they currently stand is pretty busy all things considering—with it being lunchtime and all—so a generous amount of people pass by Dean as he stands, surveying the surrounding area while chowing down. Walking while eating a sandwich also isn’t the easiest thing in the world, and it’s not like Dean has any real place to be.

        Out of the blue, a teenage boy stops fairly close to both Dean and the tourist couple, who are still taking pictures and not really paying attention to anything else. If Dean were any other kind of person, he probably would have ignored the kid, but he glances at him out of the corner of his eyes. The boy is moving a little _too_ close to the bench for comfort, and Dean watches as he focuses his attention on the abandoned bags of the tourist couple. Dean swallows the food in his mouth, honestly in disbelief as he watches the kid glance up at the distracted couple, and back down to the bags again. Seriously, he’s going to try to steal the things with Dean standing right here? Apparently he is, since the kid takes another step forward.

        Without saying a word to alert anyone that anything is amiss, Dean turns his head and looks directly at the young teenager, who freezes, as if he can feel Dean’s gaze on him. The kid slowly turns his head to look at Dean, his eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights.

        Still without saying a word, Dean levels the teenager with the most intimidating look he can, shaking his head slowly, warning the boy. The kid is still frozen, and his eyes glance back towards the still ignorant couple before settling back on Dean. Dean shakes his head one more time, shifting his legs just enough that he’s ready to sprint after the kid if he has to.

        The boy hesitates, still meeting Dean’s gaze before he turns sharply, and walks right past Dean. Dean turns with him, watching the kid until he turns around a corner a street or so down and disappears from sight. Dean sighs and shakes his head, taking another bite of his sandwich and chewing thoughtfully.

        He’s stolen some things in his life—sometimes within his field of work—and he’s not _that_ proud of it. Most of the time he was stealing because times had gotten tough, and he stole things to peddle them or trade them in for cash somehow so he could fucking eat. It was a survival thing, and he understands stealing for the sake of survival since he’s had to live through that himself. It’s not the most morally correct path to take, but since he’s been on that end of the stick before, he knows what it’s like.

        That kid didn’t look like he was on the brink of starvation though. His clothes and shoes looked brand new, and he didn’t look skinny as a rail. Now Dean knows that even the most poor people on this planet don’t look it sometimes, but he figures that a white teenage boy trying to steal something on the street in the middle of the day in front of several people probably wasn’t doing so out of necessity.

        He sighs, finishing off his sandwich and strolling over to the trash can next to the bench and tossing the paper wrapper into it. The tourist couple have now stopped taking pictures, and turn to leave. “Those bags yours?” Dean asks tiredly, even though he already knows that they are.

        The woman gasps and turns back, pulling her partner with her. “Thank you so much! I can’t believe we almost forgot them!”

        Dean sighs as they grab the bags. “You’re welcome,” he says, scratching at the back of his hair before walking off. “Coffee, coffee, coffee,” he sings underneath his breath.  

 

        He does eventually find a coffee place, and manages to order and enjoy said coffee all the way home without any further incidents.

 

***

        Dean is barely even in the door when Roman turns out on the hallway.

        “Going out to headquarters, wanna come?” Roman asks. His hair is tied back into a bun high on his head, all the pieces up and out of his face. He’s got a duffel bag in one hand and his keys in the other, and Dean blinks at him.

        “What you goin’ to headquarters for, we just got back?”

        “Got some drills I wanna work out that I can only do there.” Roman steps towards the door. “Rides here, so I’m goin’.”

        Dean shrugs, removing his keys from his jacket so he can put them on the table next to the door. “Naw, had enough of that place and outside today, just gonna stay in and chill.”

        “Suit yourself.” Roman opens the door, then casually throws out over his shoulder. “Seth is still here by the way.”

        Dean immediately pockets his keys again and turns right on his heel following after Roman. “Fuck that.”

        Roman just huffs out a laugh as he holds the door open for Dean. “Got your ID?” He asks.

        Dean ducks underneath his arm. “Should be fine.”

  


        By the time they make it to headquarters, Dean’s coffee is gone and he feels no remorse at leaving Rollins alone in the apartment. Unfortunately, since they don’t have pre-authorization to be in the building, it takes an extra fifteen minutes for them to go through security, and another ten after that since Dean didn’t bring his ID with him. After a recitation of his Agent Identification Number, birthday, and a thumbprint, they finally make it to one of the elevators that lead to the underground levels, a bright, obvious “Visitor: Clearance Level 3” badge pinned to the breast pocket of Dean’s jacket.

        Dean grumbles under his breath as they make their descent towards the training rooms, his fists jammed into his jean pockets. Roman hasn’t said anything, but Dean can feel the smugness practically rolling off him in waves. “It’s bullshit, they know who we are. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve ever been in the building. ‘Sides, they got my picture on the fucking file and everything.”

        The elevator finally drops to their floor, the sudden change making Dean’s stomach turn just a little. “Told you—”

        “If you finish that sentence you’re dead to me.” Dean pushes off the wall and rushes out of the elevator, pushing past Roman with a scowl.

        “—so.” Roman finishes without hesitation.

        Dean turns on his heel. “You’re dead to me,” he assures, turning back on his heel and stomping away. The entirety of this floor are training facilities, glass walls in between rooms that don’t block out onlookers but somehow block out sound. Several groups of people are running drills or working out in some shape or form, and Dean’s boots clicking on the floor sound almost obtusely loud in comparison to the silence.

        Roman follows after him. “Do you even know where you’re going?” He asks idly.

        Dean doesn’t turn back to acknowledge him.“Sorry, I don’t have the ability to hear the dead.”

        “You can talk to them though?”

        Dean rolls his eyes but still resolutely does not look at Roman. “Soooo not my point.”

        Dean can hear the smile in Roman’s voice as he replies. “Sounds like a shitty deal to me.”

        Dean stops in his tracks and finally turns to Roman, ignoring the fact that those who are training in the room to the right of them have taken notice of them. “I hate you.” He states matter-of-factly.

        One of Roman’s brows raises just a tick along with his smile. “Thought you couldn’t hear me.”

        Dean’s mouth actually drops open. This can’t be actually happening. He chuckles as he speaks. “You’re making a joke!” He gestures towards the training groups even though he knows they probably can’t hear him and have no idea what he’s doing. It’s not the point though, it’s the principle. “I am witnessing history here folks, WWE’s own Roman Reigns has made not one but _two_ jokes today!” He says.

        “What can I say, you bring out the jokester in me.” Roman deadpans, and Dean just snorts.

 

        As they walk down the corridor, Dean notices a familiar flash of color. “Hey,” he says, stopping in his tracks again. “I didn’t know NXT was training down here.”

        Roman stops in his tracks as well. “Neither did I.”

        They both watch as several groups of people in black and yellow run through different drills. One group seems to be going through hand to hand drills, another is working through ascending and descending drills, and a third seem to be doing a rotation of cardio drills. Three trainers stand at each station blowing whistles and probably shouting at them to do better. Dean scoffs through his nose.

        “Sure as shit don’t miss that.”

        “That’s the training room I wanted to use…” Roman’s voice is soft, if not a little forlorn.

        Dean eyes him out of his peripherals. He makes a face and sighs. “What were you planning on doing?”

        Roman makes a face. “Free running.”

        “Ah,” Dean frowns. Yeah no, free running drills tend to take up an entire training room, and there probably isn’t another training room free that has all that Roman wants. “Knowing them, who knows how long it’s gonna be.”

        As they talk back and forth to one another, two members of the group performing hand to hand drills approach the edge of the room, skirting particularly close to the wall. It catches Dean’s attention, and his eyes turn just in time to see a blur of black and yellow be twirled and slammed face first into the glass wall. Even though the room is practically soundproof, both Dean and Roman hear the ‘thunk’ of the body hitting it, as well as the reverberation as the extremely strong glass absorbs the hit without any give whatsoever. Dean hisses through his teeth, Christ almighty that must’ve hurt like a bitch. The entire group inside come to a stop to stare as the guy sits slumped against the wall, completely stationary a few worrying moments. One of the trainers takes a step forward, speaking but unable to be heard by either Dean or Roman, but the guy waves him off and slowly comes to his feet, rubbing his shoulder and rotating it.

        He’s got to be one of the most ridiculous people Dean has ever had the experience of witnessing in his entire life. It’s really got nothing to do with his height or how heavy he is, pretty average in both respects Dean thinks, but just the way he looks in general.

        What this guy considers a hairstyle just looks like a conglomeration of bad decisions. The top is long and flipped up in the front—however probably sagging a little more than normal due to sweat—and the sides are short with designs shaved in them. On top of that, he’s got longer pieces of hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He’s got a few notches shaved in his left eyebrow, a gold hoop in each lobe, and a beard that _looks_ effortless, but with Dean’s immediate impression of the guy, it’s probably just styled to look that way. More than a few tattoos that Dean can’t really pin down decorate his arms, and as the guy stands, he notices Dean, and stares at him with bright, too wide blue eyes. He smiles and they have a stare down moment, before something catches the guy’s attention and he turns his head. He glances back at Dean just long enough to throw him an exaggerated wink, before turning back to his training partner.

        Dean is actually taken aback at the action. Utterly ridiculous.

        “‘M going in,” Roman says, breaking Dean out of his altercation induced funk. The tawny haired man blinks and returns his attention to Roman, who hefts his duffel bag over his shoulder.

        “What for? They ain’t done yet.”

        Roman pushes past him. “Gonna ask how long they’re gonna be.”

        “You think that’s a good idea?”

        “Bill actually likes me,” Roman says, pointing to one of the trainers.

        Dean groans. Never did make it good with the head trainer. Always said he was too wild in his fighting style, that it was going to get him into trouble more often than not but he could never break Dean of it. He did finally begrudgingly admit to Dean once he was out of NXT that his fighting style was also what made him such a unique target as well as operative, but Dean knew that already. He took the ‘compliment’ graciously regardless. Well, what he would call graciously anyway, which was to snort, say ‘duh,’ and watch Bill roll his eyes with thinly veiled agitation mixed with fondness. Dean could almost look back on it with fondness. _Almost_ , he thinks as he watches another person doing a hand to hand drill get forced hard into the ground.

        Roman seems to have taken his unresponsiveness as an answer, since he approaches the entrance to the training room. It takes all of Dean five seconds to dwell on whether or not he wants to go in after him before groaning again and stepping after him, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. Roman scans his ID into the slot, pressing a thumbprint against the scanner afterwards, a green light and a distinct pinging noise signaling the door unlocking.

        Dean trails after him, not bothering to catch the door before it slams shut behind them and locks again. Now that they’re inside, the room is exploding with noise. Shouts, grunts, hits, the sound of shoes squeaking and screeching across the floor, and whistles from the trainers permeate the air, making Dean’s head hurt and a profound sense of déjà vu wash over him. As they enter, the energy in the room shifts as more people start to notice them. Roman is unperturbed as usual, and makes a beeline—as much as you could call it a beeline coming from Roman—for Bill, the head trainer, who has by now, as well as his entire group, noticed the two of them.

        More of them are staring at Dean than Roman, which makes sense since Dean is dressed in his pedestrian clothes with a big ol’ bright name tag that says ‘Visitor’ on it. He frowns and follows quietly after Roman, not enjoying the stares in the least. As he approaches, he hears Bill speak. “Ah, and the lunatic Dean Ambrose,” he says, a wry smirk on his face. “To what do I owe the pleasure of both of you gentleman?” He aims the last question at Roman, which again, makes sense since he’s actually dressed like he’s here to do something.

        Roman’s arms cross over his chest, and Dean huffs out a chuckle under his breath at the sight of Roman puffing up his chest just a little, channeling his inner ‘Big Dog’. Dean’s gotta admit, he’s glad the big Samoan is on their side. “I wanted to run some free running drills, but neglected to see if there was anyone who had this room reserved,” The dark haired man says, no nonsense. “I was wondering how much longer you all were going to be.”

        Bill’s lips purse and he looks away towards the trainees, most of whom are only half assedly going through their drills in favor of eavesdropping on their head trainer and an actual operative. The man thinks for a moment, before nodding. “Alright, I’ll cut you a deal,” he says. “If you help some of the trainees through hand to hand combat drills ten through fifteen, I’ll let you have the room.”

        Roman makes a face, but Bill doesn’t budge, a confident smile on his face. He offers a hand to Roman, and the big man stares at it for a few terse seconds before reaching out and shaking it. “Deal.”

        Bill smiles. “Excellent.” Then, without warning, he sharply blows his whistle three times, and Dean laughs as about half of the trainees practically jump out of their skin.

        “Quickest way to pick out the newbies,” he says, nudging Roman, who chuckles too. They heard that exact whistle so many damn times in the year they were in NXT it’s almost criminal.

        Bill’s voice booms as he speaks. “Trainees, we got a special treat for y’all so listen up!” He gestures to Roman. “This is Agent Roman Reigns, and he graciously agreed to assist us in some run throughs of hand to hand combat drills ten through fifteen.”  Dean doesn’t roll his eyes, but he’s sure as hell tempted to. More like bribed, but hey, semantics.

        The trainees warily abandon their stations as both Bill and Roman head close to the center of the room. “Watch my bag?” Roman asks over his shoulder, and Dean nods, waving him off.

        “I’ll make sure no fanatics run off with it.”

        Roman scoffs. “Like we have fanatics.”

 

        Up against one of the walls, Dean watches as the entire room gathers around Roman and one of the trainers, all of them eager to witness a full fledged agent in action. Well, a fully fledged agent doing some beginner drills, but the excitement is all the same. Dean remembers back to the beginning of his time in Developmental when active operatives would visit for a lecture or to teach them a thing or two. It’s a weird feeling that Dean and Roman can be that for some of these people now. Weird.

        It doesn’t escape Dean how some of the trainees look at Roman in awe, which yeah, makes sense cause the big guy is pretty intimidating on his best day. He just _looks_ like a special ops guy. It’s odd, in his time during Developmental there were definitely some operatives he was honored to meet and learn from, but he wasn’t really starstruck by any of them. Working in the underground they were the people Dean had heard about, had aspired to be like, had respected, but that was it. He knew he was good at what he was doing. All someone had to do was give him a chance, and he’d be just as good as any of the operatives up in the ‘big leagues’.

        It hits him all at once suddenly. He may not consider himself there just yet, but he and Roman and Rollins all have their foot in the door. WWE is giving them a chance, and even though he doesn’t like it one hundred percent, he’s had to do worse things to get where he is. This is what he’s worked essentially his entire life for, and now that he’s here, he ain’t gonna let anyone else jeopardize what he’s worked so fucking hard for.

 

        While in his own little world having his revelation, a familiar ridiculous figure winds up standing right next to him, further from the crowd than everyone else and not looking too keen on paying attention to Roman. Dean would call it coincidence were it not for the interaction he had earlier. He glances over to the shorter man, who’s trying and failing miserably to look nonchalant. Either that or he’s just constantly moving around. Dean throws the guy a bone. “That was some hit you took earlier.”

        The guy blinks at Dean, looking rather surprised that Dean actually acknowledged him. He chuckles and sticks his hands into the pockets of his uniform. Dean can’t help but notice that the pants have been drawn up to lay just underneath the guy’s knees. The accent that comes out of his mouth isn’t really what Dean expects, but once he hears it, he can’t imagine any other voice belonging to this ridiculous person.“Naw man, nothin’ doin’. Takes more than that to keep ya boy Enzo down.” He says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. Dean smirks to himself. Judging from how his whole personality screams ‘loud’, this guy looks like he takes pride in people acknowledging that he can take a hit. Dean can understand that. How good are you supposed to be in a real fight if you can’t take a hit or three? No fancy footwork, words, or moves can out class good old fashioned toughness.

        The little brag of being able to take more hits intrigues Dean. He shifts his weight and half returns his attention to the group convened in front of them.  “You always get thrown around like that?” He asks.

        The guy—Enzo—scrubs a hand through the spiked up part of his hair, pushing it up further out of his face. However, with how much he’s sweating and the humidity in here, it limps back down a little bit. “I mean sometimes, yeah,” He says slowly, perhaps a little hesitant, before he clicks his tongue and continues on. “But like I said, nothin’ I can’t take. Made of a lot tougher stuff than these guys seem to think I am. I can take more hits than any of these guys combined and still keep comin’ at ‘em, ya know? Trainer says I got real tenacity—bada boom—tell me somethin’ I don’t know why dontcha?” As he speaks, he gestures with his hands and Dean finds it all so stereotypically New Jersey that he actually shakes his head, chuckling his disbelief at the fact that the person standing next to him is an Honest to God real human being.

        Despite the fact that Dean still thinks the guy is incredibly ridiculous, he’s gotta admit, he is fairly entertaining. It’s hard to imagine a guy like this sneaking around and taking people out like the Shield do, but Dean can see him maybe doing reconnaissance, hiding in plain sight and getting information. Hell, maybe he’s good at other stuff. No one’s brought to NXT without reason, so he’s gotta be good at something.

        “Now that guy, he’s a walkin’ talkin’ hurtin’ machine ain’t he?” Enzo continues, motioning towards Roman. Dean follows the gesture to look at his teammate, who’s slowly walking a trainee through a standard take down maneuver. “Yeah, he’s got the moves and he can move quick, but a big guy like him? Bet he ain’t afraid of a little strength match either ‘cause he knows he’s got the muscle and toughness to back it up, yeah?”

        “Pretty much,” Dean chuckles underneath his breath.

        “So what about you? I take it you ain’t no visitor.” Enzo actually reaches up and flicks at the ‘Visitor’ tag, making it flip up for a second before laying back correctly on Dean’s jacket. “You got this look about ya, like you know what we’ve been through. Plus, you come in with that guy—” he points a thumb to Roman, “—and I suspect it ain’t cause ya visitin’.”

 

        Ah, talking. Talking is the something he’s good at.

 

        “Agent Dean Ambrose.” Dean offers his hand to the smaller man, who’s already wide eyes widen. Dean’s lips quirk. He’s not above flaunting his Agent status a little bit sometimes. Feels good to actually call himself an agent after all this time. It only takes Enzo a second of hesitation before he reaches out and takes Dean’s hand in a vice grip, shaking it with vigor.

        “Enzo, Enzo Amore. How you doin’?”

 

        Enzo talks Dean’s ear off during the whole hand to hand demonstration, rambling on about NXT and how Triple H _himself_ had offered him a tryout for NXT. Surprisingly he doesn’t go through the entire story of just _how_ Triple H had given him a tryout, but Dean counts himself lucky in that regard.

        Once the demonstrations are over, Bill dismisses the NXT group for free time within the building, and some of them linger, watching Roman set up for his own drills. Enzo oddly enough doesn’t stay, throwing Dean a peace sign as he heads out of the training room. “Nice to meet you man, hope we get to work together some time in the future.”

        “Whatever man, nice talking to you.”

        Hopefully not too soon.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally brought myself to watch the new Ride Along and Table for 3 episodes with the Shield boys and let me tell you folks it is 100% my brand. I love nothing more than domestic behind the scenes shit like this and you best trust that I was gayly crying and screaming throughout the whole affair.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys make their decision, also breakfast.

***

        By the time Roman is finished with his own drills, Dean is pretty much chomping at the bit to head back home. Although he physically didn’t do much today, he interacted with a lot of people, and any time that happens an itch for solitude starts to overtake him. Even the rookies who stayed behind to watch eventually grew restless watching a man do drills over and over again, and left the two of them alone. So when Roman starts his cool down exercise, Dean stands up—he had eventually made his way to the floor, resting against the wall as he watched Roman—and throws his jacket on. “You gonna shower here?” He asks.

        Roman looks over his shoulder as he stretches his back out. “You ok with riding with me in a car without one?”

        Dean laughs. “You ain’t nothin’ compared to the Developmental locker rooms, I think I can handle it.”

        “Suit yourself,” Roman says, returning to his cooldown.

 

        Roman doesn’t actually smell that bad. He sweats a whole fucking bunch, but like Dean had said, it’s nothing compared to some shit he’s had to deal with before. They make it home in record time for once, and Roman immediately heads for the shower once he sets his bag down in the entryway. Dean carefully sets his keys on the table and stretches himself, his hands up over his head as he lets out a yawn. He hasn’t been awake for that fucking long, but social exhaustion is still creeping up his spine. Taking his meds late probably didn’t help either.

        “Where in the hell did you go?”

        That grating nasal _definitely_ does not help the social exhaustion meter.

        Rollins turns around the corner of the hallway, dressed in his street clothes, a frown on his face.

        “Headquarters,” Dean replies shortly.

        “You went together?” The frown on the other man’s face deepens. “Why the hell did you go?”

        Dean throws a lazy point at the bathroom door, where the shower has now just begun to run. “Roman wanted to run drills.” He explains, half shrugging. It’s not like Rollins missed much. A thought occurs to him then, and he narrows his eyes towards the bathroom. “He didn’t tell you?”

        “No,” Rollins’ tone has a touch of bitterness to it.

        “Well you didn’t miss much.” The big man’s hasty retreat to the shower seems just a little more sinister now.

        “I didn’t know where you went before either,” Rollins replies, a little softer than before.

        Dean makes a face, pursing his lips. “You and me both. I went out to get some air, it’s not a big deal.”

        The younger man sighs. “Wish you’d let me know you went with Reigns.”

        Oh...was that was this was about? Dean’s face breaks out in a smirk. “You were worried about me?” He asks, his tone a mixture on incredulous and amused.

        Rollins frowns. “Shut up.”

        Dean’s smirk turns into a full fledged smile. “You _were_ worried about me!”

        “Of course I was you dick, we’re teammates and you go for coffee and you end up being gone for hours! Anyone would be worried!” Rollins shouts back, a flush creeping up his cheeks.

        Dean’s smile falls a little. “How did you know I was going out for coffee?”

        The flush on Rollins’ cheeks only gets darker. “I may have….overheard you talking with Reigns,” he admits softly, avoiding eye contact.

        Dean leans his shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “That’s a funny way to say you were eavesdropping,” he comments.

        “I didn’t mean to to start with, ok?” Rollins idly runs his hands over the thighs of his jeans. “It’s just...it’s like you both forgot I was even here.”

        Dean’s eyes narrow. “Didn’t think you’d be interested in where we were going,” he replies carefully. He pushes off the wall and takes a few steps forward, approaching Rollins, who’s muscles seem to tense all at once at Dean’s approach. “Were you really all that worried about me?”

        The smaller man’s face sours. “Text me next time, ok?” He asks, pushing past Dean into the kitchen. Dean looks after him, not bothering to pursue the conversation anymore. He watches as Rollins hesitates in the kitchen, like he wasn’t planning on going in there in the first place but now has to follow through on his semi-dramatic exit. He appears to decide on getting a glass of water, avoiding Dean’s gaze even though the tawny haired man is fairly certain he can feel it.

        “I’m not real good at texting,” Dean turns bodily towards the kitchen but stays his distance. Rollins glances at him, his face a mix of things and Dean can’t nail all of them down really, which is odd. “But I can try.”

        Rollins sets his glass on the counter next to the sink. “Thanks, Ambrose.”

        Dean cracks a toothy grin. “You’re welcome Rollins.”

 

***

        Once Reigns is out of the shower, he declares that it’s his turn to make dinner, since Seth had made it the night before. Seth watches Ambrose make a face, and if Seth were really more of a betting man, he’d put money down on the fact that the man doesn’t really know how to make anything more than something quick to eat for himself, let alone a dinner for the three of them.

        That’s just how Ambrose is though, looking out for number one. Well, that’s not quite true, is it? It’s more like...more like for most of his life, Ambrose had to fend for himself without the ability or want to depend on others. Now that he’s here, working in a Stable and living together with said members of that Stable, it’s like he’s learning and realizing all the things he should have already learned earlier on in life.

        Reigns makes vegetable stir fry and pot stickers from the groceries he went out for earlier, and Seth offers to help clean the dishes when they’re done.

        “We should eat in the living room, watch a movie,” Ambrose suggests, fetching plates as Reigns drains the pot stickers. “I feel like a kid sitting at the kitchen table.”

        “Or you know, maybe like someone who has manners?” Seth prods.

        Ambrose gives him a matter-of-fact look. “I am perfectly capable of using my manners when I want to.”

        “Just a matter of you wanting to,” Reigns says under his breath, causing Ambrose to laugh.

        “Got me there, man.”

        Sitting in the living room does sound an awful lot better than sitting in awkward silence at the kitchen table like they had the night before. Damn, it feels like it’s been so much longer than that. Once the food is dished out they sort of shuffle their way into the living room, and as Ambrose reaches for the remote, both Seth and Reigns interrupt.

        “No way in hell am I letting you pick something.”

        “No way, man.”

        Ambrose absolutely pouts even though he would tell you otherwise. “Why not?”

        “You have the attention span of a goldfish and I assume the terrible taste of one,” Seth replies, reaching for the remote and frowning when Ambrose jerks it out of reach.

        “How do you know goldfish have bad taste in movies?” he accuses, moving the remote out of reach again when Seth reaches for it.

        “Because they lack the brain cells for it!” Seth says, reaching for the remote for a third time and once more unable to grab it.

        Reigns appears behind Ambrose and plucks the remote from his fingers, his brows pulled low over his eyes. “You’ll pick next time, fair?”

        The younger man rolls his eyes and hunkers down in one of the loveseats—the one facing the front door, Seth notices—and pouts again, staring at the screen. “Fine, whatever, find a stupid movie.”

        Seth shakes his head.

        Reigns finally stops flipping through channels when Casino Royale comes up on the screen, and each of them in turn make fun of the movie’s interpretation of ‘covert operations’. Ambrose is the most vocal in his ridicule, and Seth finds it a little unnerving that when the interrogation scene comes up, Ambrose laughs. As they watch, Seth sees how eerily similar Bond acts in the face of a torture interrogation to how he thinks Ambrose would. Laughing and saying, “Now the whole world's gonna know you died scratching my balls," while enduring a _dutch scratching_ of all things sounds exactly like something Ambrose would do.

        Ambrose appears to agree, since he says with a chuckle. “If that ever happens to me I am totally stealing that.”

        “Be careful what you wish for,” is all Reigns says, and Ambrose just rolls his eyes.

        Of course, totally not unnerving and something every day people would say. Seth sighs. Like there’s a possibility that in any way, shape, or form any of them are normal.

        The rest of the movie passes by, the comments of ridicule slowly fading as the three of them grow fairly bored. Neither of them move or offer to change the channel however, perhaps out of sheer boredom, or the fact that they might have to pick something else that might be equally terrible, or that they might not find something and they’d have to actually talk to one another without a buffer.

        That is, until Ambrose opens his mouth. “I stopped a mugging on my walk today,” he says.

        Seth gives him a look. “You did _not_.” He rolls his eyes.

        Ambrose sits up from his slumped position in the chair. “I absolutely did! It was right outside the deli place!” He gestures with his hands. “I saw this kid reaching for like this couple’s abandoned bags and I gave him a look that said, ‘you do that boy and I’ll kick your ass’ and it scared him off.”

        “That’s more of stopping a pickpocket than anything.” Seth comments.

        Ambrose huffs, slinking further down into his seat again. “Well I don’t hear any acts of heroism from either of _you_ today,” he says pointedly.

        “We put up with you,” Reigns replies flatly, eyes still trained on the television.

        A burst of laughter erupts out of Seth, and he covers his mouth with one hand as he watches Ambrose give Reigns the finger and tell him to, ‘Shut the fuck up.’

 

        When the movie is finally said and done, they linger, watching as the channel transitions into another movie, which none of them seem to recognize. It isn’t that close to when they should be going to sleep, but Seth once again finds himself wanting to retreat to his room, just to avoid the awkward tension that is starting to seep into the room. He stands suddenly. “Hand me your dishes and I’ll wash ‘em.”

        He approaches both of the men, each handing him their plates and silverware. Ambrose still isn’t finished with his drink apparently, since he doesn’t hand the glass over, even though it’s empty. Whatever. As Seth turns towards the kitchen, Reigns says, “You can soak the pan overnight so it’s easier to clean if you want.”

        Seth shrugs, setting the plates down in the sink and pulling up his sleeves. “Some hot water and elbow grease should do the trick.”

        Reigns doesn’t respond, so Seth falls into the repetitive task of scrubbing the dishes, rinsing them off, then slipping them in the dishwasher. Thankfully Reigns had had the foresight to buy those little dish washer detergent pod things. As he’s rinsing, Ambrose enters the kitchen, his glass in hand. He hesitates for a moment, like he’s not sure whether or not he should wait for Seth to be done or hand over the glass. Seth just sighs and offers Ambrose a life line, offering his outstretched hand. Seth thinks the man mutters, ‘thank you,’ underneath his breath, but with the sound of the sink, he isn’t sure. Regardless, Seth just rolls his eyes and rinses the glass before putting it in the dishwasher.

        With that finished, Seth kicks the dishwasher closed, pulls the hand towel from where it’s hanging over the door of the cupboard below the sink, and leans against the kitchen entryway as he dries his hands. “So what happens now?”

        “I’ll empty it when it’s done,” Ambrose suddenly says, and Seth blinks, before a disbelieving chuckle comes out of his mouth.

        “That’s….that’s not what I meant….but alright,” he says carefully. Ambrose just shrugs and doesn’t look at him. Seth it too tired to try to analyze whatever the tawny haired man is thinking, so he doesn’t even try.

        “We wait,” Reigns says with a frown.

        Seth was afraid of that. He’s not terribly fond of waiting, especially with something this potentially life changing looming over his head, but he doesn’t really have a choice, does he? He sighs and returns the hand towel to its rightful spot.

        So wait they have to do.

 

***

        Finally, on the night of the third day after the mission, a notification on each of their phones draws them together. All three know what it means.

        Their time is up.

        “They want us to come in tomorrow,” Seth says, diligently reading the message out as he paces across the living room. Nervous energy courses through him, making it unable for him to stay still too long. Is this how Ambrose feels all of the time?

        “Give us one more night’s sleep before making probably one of the biggest decisions of our careers, how kind of them,” Ambrose grouses from what Seth is coming to understand as the man’s favorite chair.

        Seth looks at both Reigns and Ambrose, the former of which is sitting stiffly on the couch. No one speaks for a long moment, so Seth sighs, knowing they need to get this over with. He breaks the silence. “ _Have_ we come to a decision?”

        Neither of his teammates answer him for a long moment. Time ticks by, second by agonizing second, before Ambrose finally opens his mouth. “I’m only on board so no one fucks me up or gets in my way.”

        Seth feels like a physical weight has been lifted from his shoulders with how relieved he feels to hear those words. He can’t help but smile, and it makes Ambrose’s face turn a little sour. He doesn’t let it dampen his spirit however, and he looks to Reigns, who shrugs. “Guess we’re sayin’ yes.”

        Seth smile only widens. He runs a hand over his head, letting out a huge sigh of relief. “I’m glad,” he says. “I’m really glad.”

        “Don’t be too happy Rollins it still aint gonna be a walk in the park,” Ambrose snarks, not looking at him. He’s staring defiantly at the television, like Seth’s happiness actually disgusts him. Even still, it doesn’t break Seth’s spirits.

        “We’re not gonna regret this,” he assures. “I promise.”

 

***

        For some strange reason, Seth doesn’t wake up to his alarm, rather to the smell of someone cooking something. He blinks awake, taking a glance at his phone and seeing that it’s not even six in the morning yet. They are to report to Mr. Helmsley at nine, and the three of them had decided the night before that they should get in a early workout before everything went down. Seth stifles a yawn and sits up, scratching at the back of his head and blinking away the sleep. He had slept fairly well last night, probably since the stress of the decision was no longer hanging over him like a ticking time bomb.

        Honestly, he’s surprised that Ambrose even agreed. The talk with Reigns must have gotten to him.

        The half blonde man lets out one more yawn before switching off his wake up alarm and throwing the covers off of himself. Might as well get started with the day.

        Upon opening his door and padding towards the kitchen, the smell of food obviously grows stronger. Seth recognizes the smell of eggs, and he squints, seeing that both Reigns’ and Ambrose’s doors are shut. Scratching sleepily at his belly underneath his shirt, he peers into the kitchen from the living room and blinks at what he sees.

        Ambrose is standing there in front of the oven in nothing but mesh shorts, his hair untamed as he prods at the contents of a pan with a spatula. He hasn’t noticed Seth yet, and continues to not notice him as he walks up to the kitchen.

        “What are you—”

        “ _Jesus Christ_ !” Ambrose practically shouts, almost dropping the spatula right out of his hand. His head whips around so he can glare at Seth. “Don’t _do_ that!”

        Seth can’t help but chuckle. “So even you can be too tired to be alert sometimes. Some special ops agent _you_ are.”

        Ambrose frowns and points at him with the spatula. “Just for that, you’re not getting a Happy Bowl.”

        Seth raises a brow. “A _what_?”

        The other man tosses the spatula from his right hand, to his left hand, then back again, avoiding Seth’s eyes like he’s suddenly unsure if something. “Breakfast,” he says, gesturing with the spatula now, pointing it to the lightly sizzling pan.

        Seth approaches a little warily, leaning with his hip against the counter and peering at the contents of the pan with a tiny bit of morbid curiosity. Inside the pan, there are two thick slices of bread with most of the middles taken out of them, and a single egg cracked and sizzling in the space where the bread is missing. He glances up at Ambrose. “....Happy Bowls?”

        The taller man half shrugs, still not looking at Seth. He prods at the bread with the spatula. “‘S like an all in one portable breakfast sandwich thing I made up.”

        Seth stands back up straight. He’s pretty sure what Ambrose is describing was already a thing before he came up with it, but for some reason, he doesn’t point it out. “So what’s in it?” He asks instead.

        Ambrose prods at the bread again. “Most of the time just bread and egg, maybe some cheese if you like that. I put bacon on the bottom before the egg once and that was really good too.” He shrugs. “So whatever.”

        “And you wanted to make some?”

        Ambrose pulls one of the pieces out and places it on a plate beside the stove. “I’m really good at makin’ em,” he says, and it wouldn’t really make sense if Seth had not seen the look Ambrose had made two nights ago when Roman had said it was his turn to cook dinner.

        “You good at making breakfast foods?” Seth asks carefully.

        The auburn haired man half shrugs again, still avoiding Seth’s gaze. “Yeah, I guess. ‘M _really_ good at makin’ this though,” he insists, plating the other Happy Bowl and placing it on the plate.

        “You wanna make breakfast instead from now on?”

        “If all of us are gonna eat together, I guess.” Ambrose admits, like it wasn’t his entire plan all along. Seth resists the urge to smile. He’s totally trying to prove he’s useful in a domestic situation without outright saying it. It’s like he’s saying, ‘Look, there’s stuff I can do! Please notice it!’

        “I’m sorry I scared you earlier.”

        “You didn’t scare me, you snuck up on me, there’s a big difference.”

        Seth doesn’t even hide the roll to his eyes. “Ok, I’m sorry I snuck up on you.”

        Ambrose finally glances over at him out of the corner of his eyes. “You’re lucky you’re already here and I already made two Happy Bowls,” he says, a fake put upon sigh coming out of his mouth. He can’t even make it half-way through without lazily smiling. It’s a good look on him, lazy sleepiness instead of wired hyperactivity or worse, aggression. He must have gotten at least _some_ sleep last night.

        Seth grabs a plate from the counter and nods as Ambrose places the Happy Bowl on it. “Thank you,” he says.

        The other man points at Seth’s nose with the spatula and the half blonde man almost goes cross eyed as he looks at it for a second before focusing on Ambrose’s face. “You want other shit on it though you’re on your own.”

 

        “What parallel universe have I stumbled into where I’m the last one to wake up?” Reign’s voice makes both men turn, and both of them chuckle when the disgruntled looking Samoan strolls from the bathroom to the entryway of the kitchen, his silver eyes blinking several times, like he can’t see. His hair is kind of everywhere, and it doesn’t escape Seth how odd it is to see the almost always incredibly well put together Samoan look like this.

        “The parallel universe where I make breakfast, you want some?” Ambrose asks, gesturing again with the spatula like it’s a pointer. Seth rolls his eyes and wanders towards the kitchen table, plate still in hand.

        Reigns steps further into the kitchen and occupies the place Seth just vacated. “What’re you making?” He asks.

        “Happy Bowls,” Ambrose replies simply.

        “....Happy Bowls?” Reigns asks after a moment of hesitation.

        Seth chuckles out loud when Ambrose huffs and goes on about ‘teaching both of them some fucking culture.’ With a little bit of wariness Seth uses his fork to cut a tiny piece off the Happy Bowl, enough to where he gets a good bread to egg ratio, and carefully puts it in his mouth. Surprisingly, it’s actually quite good. Seth takes another bite, and then, remembering their first dinner together, Seth looks over his shoulder into the kitchen. “For what it’s worth Ambrose,” he starts, and it grabs the tawny haired man’s attention. “It doesn’t taste like shit….so thanks I guess.” He says the entire thing with a smirk on his face, and he sees that Ambrose gets what he’s referencing to immediately.

        He points the spatula again. “You shut up.”

 

        After educating both Roman and Rollins on the finer nuances of Happy Bowl making, Dean grabs his own and starts idly eating it while standing next to the kitchen table, leaning against it slightly. He doesn’t miss the withered little disapproving look he gets from Rollins, but whatever, he doesn’t care. He made breakfast, he’ll eat it wherever he damn pleases. “So, we goin’ to headquarters early still?” He asks.

        Rollins places his fork gently down on the plate, and honestly, was he not even listening when Dean told him Happy Bowls were portable? “That’s the plan,” he says.

        Roman—who he had made two Happy Bowls for because the man always eats like it’s his Last Day on Earth—swallows a bite before speaking. “Remember to bring your ID this time.” He says, giving Dean a look.

        Dean rolls his eyes. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

        Roman takes another bite. “Nope,” he says, this time with this mouth full.

        Rollins eyes him. “You _forgot_ your ID?”

        Dean groans over his own mouthful of food. He gestures with his Happy Bowl at Rollins. “Now look, you gave him ammo against me, why would you do that?”

        “In the hopes that you will remember your ID,” Roman replies flatly.

        “Fine, I’ll bring my ID, see if I ever make you breakfast again after this betrayal.” Dean pointedly replies.

        Roman finishes his first Happy Bowl. “It’s _very_ good,” He offers.

        Dean scoffs and finishes off his own food. “Of course it is, _I_ made it.”

 

***

        The ride to headquarters is thankfully uneventful, each man stuck enough in his own head to not really want to talk to one another. The closer and closer they get, the more real this becomes, and Seth can’t help the excited fluttering in his stomach and his heart. He knows this is a good idea, he just _knows_. Checking into the building is thankfully uneventful as well, and Seth chuckles when Reigns teases Ambrose about how smooth the process goes when people remember their IDs.

        “Someday it’s gonna happen to you Reigns,” Dean threatens. “And when that happens I want you to know that the ridicule you will endure from me will be like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

        “First of all, ain’t gonna happen,” Reigns replies. “Second of all, I have more brothers and cousins than you can count, so do your worst.”

        And just like that, Reigns drops another piece of his life into a conversation, like it’s nothing.

 

        The three of them part ways once they reach the gyms. Neither Reigns nor Ambrose are really into Crossfit, and Seth has been itching to do more than just lift free weights or run. They agree to meet each other back outside the gyms at 8:45, so they have time to reach their meeting with Mr. Helmsley with a little time to spare. Never hurts to be early, and Mr. Helmsley seems like a, “being early is being on time,” type of person.

        Seth doesn’t expect the box to be too crowded at this time in the morning, especially at headquarters, but he’s pleasantly surprised to see that there are more than a handful of people loosening up before the workout. Seth’s face brightens when he notices a familiar bald head near the back right of the group, and he heads over to greet it’s owner.

        “Antonio Cesaro!” At the call of his name, the man stops his stretching and turns, a curious look on his face until he spots Seth approaching. He then smiles.

        “Seth Rollins!” He calls back, and he pulls the younger man into a side hug, causing Seth to chuckle. “Long time no see, how have you been?” He asks when he pulls away, obviously pleased to see the other man. It’s refreshing really, after having to deal with Ambrose these past couple of days.

        Seth had also met Antonio in Developmental, but the man had been elevated to Agent status earlier that year. They had both shared similar ideas and interests involving fitness, and quickly became buddies when it came to Crossfit classes. After getting to know each other, an easy friendship formed between them, probably main in part to Antonio’s friendly attitude towards everything. Seth knows that there’s a beast hiding under all that kindness and caffeine however, otherwise the Swiss man wouldn’t have made it in this business at all. How he’s able to compartmentalize some things is amazing though. Once Seth had asked him about it and Antonio had simply smiled and said, “I don’t have time to be nasty to people who don’t deserve it.”

        Fair enough.

        “Good, good, just got promoted to Agent Status, in a Stable, so can’t really complain,” Seth says goodnaturedly, watching Cesaro nod along as he speaks.

        “I heard about that! Congratulations, friend!” He says, clapping a hand on Seth’s back. “The other boys aren’t giving you too much trouble, are they?” He adds, leaning in and giving Seth a look of mock concern that is probably half actual concern.

        Seth shrugs. “It’s month one and I’m still here, so I guess you can call that good?” He half-jokes, and Antonio laughs.

        “Tell me about it,” he agrees. “Partnerships and Stables can be a real pain sometimes. But one step at a time, yes?”

        “All I can do I suppose,” Seth says, placing his gym bag and water bottle carefully down and out of the way so he can begin his pre-workout stretch routine. “How about you, anything exciting happening?”

        Antonio chuckles from his position, glancing up at Seth as he touches his toes. “Well Seth, I could tell you...but then I’d have to kill you.”

        Seth rolls his eyes and has to laugh along, gripping one of his ankles and pulling it back behind him so he can loosen up his quads. “And how long have you been waiting to break that one out?”

        The Swiss man stands. “Longer than I’d like to admit,” he says sheepishly, twisting his torso back and forth. “Thank you for granting me the opportunity, you are a true friend.”

        Seth snorts lightly, still smiling. “It’s my pleasure.”

        They lapse into a rather comfortable silence as they continue with their pre-workout stretches, Seth trying to clear his mind and reach that space that’s only concerned about the workout ahead. Unfortunately, Antonio speaks, and says the one thing that Seth had been hoping he wouldn’t hear just yet.

        “Did you hear about what happened to Ryback and Cena?”

        Alarm bells start to go off in Seth’s brain. Well, it’s obvious that their more recent escapades haven’t escaped the notice of their fellow operatives, but to what extent, Seth isn’t sure. Antonio doesn’t seem to be privy to the fact that Seth was _involved_ with what happened to the two operatives, but he chooses his next words carefully nonetheless.

        “Most of what I’ve heard is that they got beaten up, ambushed?”

        “Ryback got thrown through glass!” Antonio says loudly, and Seth resists the urge to hush him, lest they draw attention to themselves and lest Seth draw suspicion to himself. This business is infested with gossip mongers, and he’d rather continue to stay as low under the radar as he has been since his promotion. “By a group of mystery men!”

        Well that clears up whether or not Antonio knew Seth was involved or not. It’s a bit of a relief, but they don’t work for an espionage agency for nothing, eventually, the rest of the company is going to find out, Seth just hoped that they were going to have at least more time before the entire rumor mill got started. Granted, he doesn’t know what actually happened to Cena and Ryback after they left, so it’s a very real chance that they reported being ambushed, and through the grapevine of people who for some reason can’t keep their mouths shut—something you’d think wouldn’t be a problem in espionage, but apparently not—it’s spread down to the other Agents.

        Seth forces himself to let out a chuckle. “‘Mystery Men?’ Don’t you think that sounds a little far fetched?”

        Antonio gives him a look just as the instructor blows a whistle to signify the beginning of the class. “Nothing in this business is too far fetched, my friend.”

        Seth doesn’t have time for any more questions as the WOD starts, but that doesn’t stop his brain from generating a million of them. It sucks, since he really wanted to get in a quality workout before they went to their meeting with Mr. Helmsley, but it looks as though he’s going to be stuck in his head the whole fucking time.        

        “Alright everyone,” the instructor calls out, drawing Seth out of himself a little. Right, work out, this is a work out. “We’re going to start of this morning with Barbara and then move through a Helen and see how we feel, how does that sound?”

        The group at hand replies rather lackluster at the chipper tone of the trainer, but it doesn’t seem to deter her. She blows her whistle, and each person in the group quickly trots over to the pull up bars and begin the exercise. Both Seth and Antonio pick spots next to one another and they each pull at a rather regular pace, both wanting to ease into higher speed and intensity. They make it through the pull ups easily, transitioning into pushups. A thought crosses Seth’s mind. “Are you still in your trial period, Antonio?” He asks, turning his head to look at the other man.

        Antonio scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Thank Heavens no. It was a pain.”

        Seth huffs as he pushes himself up. “Tell me about it.”

        The whistle blows again. “Agent Rollins, Agent Cesaro, try not to speak and focus up please!”

        The two agents give each other looks, chuckling as they transition into sit ups. “Race you you thirty?” Antonio says under his breath.

        “Absolutely.” Seth replies with a light chuckle.

 

        It takes a while, but eventually, Seth finds himself focusing on the workout, pushing himself further and further as the WODs start to get more and more strenuous and difficult. His mind thankfully clears, tapping into his reserves as his brain starts to go into that blissful place he’s heard of called a, ‘Crossfit High’. Antonio seems to find his place as well, since he goes hyper focused and quiet, not goading or challenging Seth into any more races through the exercise.

        Unfortunately, all things do eventually have to come to an end, and the instructor blows her whistle one last time. She claps, “Great work everyone, you all did fantastically! Now let’s go into our cool down and our post workout stretches and we’ll be good to go!”

        Seth comes to a stop, crossing his arms over his head and breathing harshly, his brain starting to come back online. Antonio stops next to him, in a similar state of breathlessness, a smile on his face. “Good session, no?” He asks.

        It takes Seth a few seconds but he nods. “Good session.”

        The rest of the cooldown and post workout stretching doesn’t take too long, and glancing up at the time Seth notices that he actually has enough time to do more than just rinse off in the showers. “Have anything interesting for the rest of the day?” Antonio asks, wiping a hand over his head.

        Seth makes a face and it comes rushing back. “Yeah, there’s an important meeting that my Stablemates and I have to be at at nine.”

        Antonio checks the wall clock as well. “Damn, well, perhaps next time when we’re both free? We could get a coffee or something?”

        “Coffee after a workout?”

        “It’s never the wrong time for coffee.”

        Seth chuckles, then pulls his hair out of the sweaty bun he had pulled it into earlier, grimacing a little. “Sounds good. Your number still the same?”

        Antonio nods, reaching for his bag and strolling towards the gym locker rooms, Seth following by his side. “I’ll text you my schedule.”

 

        Seth strips down easily for his shower, communal showers in close quarters for a year not doing too much for his modesty. He steps under the mildly scalding spray and groans, the water immediately soothing the light ache that was already starting to settle into his muscles. There are some standard issue shower products on the various shelves of the showers, but thankfully Seth brought some of his own from home, not wanting to use that stuff on his hair ever again.

        “So how is it working with Ambrose and Reigns?” Antonio asks, reaching for a regular bar of soap, scrubbing himself down but keeping the thinly veiled privacy by keeping his eyes either closed or staring straight forward.

        Seth sighs, pushing his wet hair out of his face and eyes. “It’s about what you’d expect. Ambrose is loud and obnoxious but he gets the job done, and Reigns is quiet and restrained but he gets the job done.”

        Antonio nods and hums in understanding. “I think with your level headedness you will help balance out the team well. I can see why you were all paired together.”

        Seth scrubs shampoo deep into his scalp. “You do?” He asks, peeping open an eye to glance at the Swiss man but cursing softly and slamming his eyes shut when some shampoo drips into them.

        “You all three are very Alpha male types,” Antonio explains. “All very different _types_ of Alpha males, but nonetheless.”

        Seth rises some of the shampoo out of his hair before he dares to open his eyes again. “And you think that’s a good thing?”

        “I think it has the _potential_ to be a good thing,” Antonio reasons. “If you three can end up getting along, I think you would be a force to be reckoned with. Three very strong personalities getting along and on the same side can be a very dangerous thing to anyone who oppose them, see what I’m meaning?”

        Seth makes a face, pressing his face and hair back into the spray. “I suppose,” he considers. It’s something he’s definitely thought about, and the more and more time passes—and with how much Punk wants their team to work—the more it becomes apparent that that’s what the company wants out of them. It’s a little daunting, to say the least. Hearing it from Antonio as well kind of cements it for him. They _could_ be an unstoppable force, but the idea of trying to get all three of their very powerful personalities to mesh together makes Seth brain immediately feel exhausted. They’ve made it as a team so far, even though it hasn’t even really been a whole week yet, but Seth has a feeling that the worst is yet to come, and that’s incredibly daunting.

        Antonio must sense his hesitance, since he speaks again. “It’s not something that you have to worry about right now, just keep working at it, and I think things will turn out,” he assures, and Seth just sighs, running his hands through his hair.

        “I hope you’re right.”

 

        It’s 8:45, and they don’t have any more time to waste. Thankfully, when Seth strolls out of the gym after bidding Antonio a farewell, he finds his Stablemates already there, looking perhaps a little worn out from their workout, but not entirely worse for wear. He approaches them. “We ready to go?” He says. He can readily admit that he’s excited, this opportunity really is once in a lifetime, but with the recent knowledge that their actions are already news around the Agency—even if as of right now no one knows it’s them—his good mood is tampered, just slightly.

        Reigns nods once. “As we’ll ever be.”

        Ambrose grumbles something under his breath as they start to leave together, and Seth can’t make out much more than, ‘walking,’ and  ‘hangman’s noose.’

        Their ride up the special elevator towards Mr. Helmsley’s office—his actual _office!—_ is rife with tension, so thick that it actually gets hard to breathe. Mr. Helmsley’s office is on the top floors of the building, so it takes an almost agonizing amount of time for the elevator to finally slow to a stop. The doors smoothly slide open to reveal a pleasant looking enough front desk/waiting area, where a woman wearing a small headset sits at a desk, typing away at her computer. As the elevator chimes however, and the three agents step out, she looks up and smiles. As they approach her counter, with Seth at the lead, she stops typing and focuses her attention on the three Agents. Her hands fold daintily together on her desk and she smiles brightly at them. “How may I help you gentleman?” She asks.

        From her tone, Seth feels like she knows why they’re here—you have to take a special elevator that requires several levels of clearance to get here after all—but her politeness is refreshing. He clears his throat, “Hi yes, we have an appointment with Mr. Helmsley at 9:00.”

        Her eyes glance at her computer screen—whether to check the time or something else, Seth isn’t sure—and she nods lightly. “May I see your identification please, gentleman?”

        The three of them readily hand it over, and Seth doesn’t miss the sly but silent exchange between Reigns and Ambrose as they do. The secretary takes the IDs, then focuses on her computer, typing for a few minutes, before scanning each ID through a scanner. “Excellent gentlemen, you’re all checked in,” she says as she hands them back their IDs. “I’ll let Mr. Helmsley know you are here.”

        “Thank you,” each of the men say with varying tones of gratitude.

        The secretary reaches up to her headset. “Mr. Helmsley, your nine o’clock is here.” She cocks her head just slightly, and after a few moments of terse silence—her listening to Mr. Helmsley responding no doubt—she nods. “Mr. Helmsley will see you now,” She says, a polite smile on her face as she gestures to the large door behind her.

        They approach, but all three stop just shy of it. Seth swallows and glances at his teammates. “Now or never, right?”

        Both Reigns and Ambrose nod, and Seth returns his attention back to the door, inhaling and exhaling deeply, before pushing the door open.

        Seth immediately notices that Mr. Helmsley’s office looks nothing like he expected it to. Honestly he thought it would look similar to Punk’s office. All sterile white walls and authoritative furniture. But the room is decorated in sleek, semi modern furniture, with splashes of muted colors here and there. The actual carpet beneath their feet is navy, and at the great big wooden desk ahead of them, sits Mr. Hunter Hearst Helmsley.

        He looks more pleased today than the last time they met, and if Seth were a praying man, he’d ask that the COO actually _was_. “Agents Rollins, Reigns, and Ambrose,” he says. His tone is warm, yet professional, and Seth feels a little bit of tension slide away. This was going to work, this was going to be fine. “Have a seat, won’t you?” The boss adds, gesturing to the three chairs situated in front of his desk. He was definitely expecting them.

        “Thank you, sir,” Seth says, being the first to step forward. Neither Reigns or Ambrose say anything, just follow after Seth and sit in the remaining chairs.

        “Can I get you boys anything, coffee?” Mr. Helmsley asks, and Seth shakes his head.

        “No, but thank you sir.” He gives his teammates a fervent glance out of the corner of his eyes, wordlessly bading them to respond.

        “No thanks.”

        “I’m good.”

        Seth just barely manages to conceal a cringe, but at least they said something.

        Mr. Helmsley thankfully doesn’t appear perturbed, and he nods, lacing his fingers together on his desk. Alright, Seth thinks, time for business. “Gentleman, we all know why you’re here. You’ve been given three days to contemplate my offer, and I would like an answer,” he says concisely.

        Seth glances over to his cohorts, making eye contact with both of them before facing Mr. Helmsley straight on. He inhales and exhales deeply, and says, “We accept the offer.”

        A smile overtakes Mr. Helmsley’s face, and the final compounding weight of this entire affair lifts itself off of Seth. “Excellent,” the boss says, unlacing his hands and offering a hand to Seth, who tries not to shake it too enthusiastically.

        “So that’s it?” Ambrose asks after he warily and begrudgingly shakes Helmsley’s hand.

        The man’s smile grows just slightly, and he nods. “For now, Mr. Ambrose.”

        “So what happens now?” Reigns asks.

        Mr. Helmsley leans back in his chair, “For now, you will continue your trial period. When the time comes—if the time comes—I will contact you about enforcer operations. Until then, proceed with operations you are given as normal.”

        “Thank you very much for this opportunity Sir,” Seth says. “You won’t regret it.”

        Mr. Helmsley lays another one of those looks upon the half blonde Agent, one that Seth can’t quite read, but looks as though he’s looking at Seth for the first time, really scrutinizing him. He wonders if its a tactical thing, or just something Mr. Helmsley does. Whatever it is, it’s quite unnerving.

        They don’t call the man the Cerebral Assassin for nothing, do they?

        “I’m sure I won’t,” the man finally speaks, a little tinge of warning in his tone. “You are dismissed.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe The New Day called me out at Survivor Series for writing Shield Fanfic. Also, did you know that a lot of Crossfit WOD’s have like, regular people names??? I didn’t.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, welcome to chapter 9, where we finally move past the boys’ first week together. When I said slow burn y’all I mean SLOW BURN. Also, this chapter completely kicked my ass in terms of writing. This chapter seriously took about a month or two to write and I don’t even know if I’m that happy with it, but I did it and it’s the longest chapter to date, so that counts for something?

***

 

        With the whirlwind of being promoted to Agent status, their subsequent first operation, and appointment to...whatever Mr. Helmsley was calling them—enforcer squad??—Seth had almost completely forgot that Thanksgiving was in two days.

        Now normally, even when Seth worked through independent companies, Thanksgiving and Christmas were the kind of days where everyone in the world just sort of decided that no one really needed to do anything that involved Espionage. It was kind of an unspoken rule. So Seth would actually find his way home during those two holidays, spend time with his family, and lie straight through his teeth about how good his ‘Security’ Job was coming along. It was a yearly tradition going all the way back since he was around twenty years old. He wasn’t proud of it, having to lie to his family, but it got easier and easier every year, and he had the inkling, even six years ago, that his parents wouldn’t be too thrilled to learn that he was in fact a corporate spy and mercenary.

        Once he was hired at WWE however, the tradition changed. The intense training that NXT provided granted no leeways. Not one person in their entire group had been able or allowed to return home for the holidays. It was difficult when he called his parents and told them that due to the intense training of his _new_ Security position he wasn’t able to come home for the Holidays at all that year, and even though they said that they understood and that they were proud of him, he could hear the disappointment in their tones. It breaks his heart a little because he knows, he just _knows_ that he’s going to have to do it again. WWE has them on call for whatever operation they want in this stupid trial period, and the idea of not being able to go home for two years in a row kind of absolutely sucks. Ugh, having to call his parents and tell them, “Hey, I know I haven’t talked to you in probably close to three months or so, but I just wanted to let you know I’m not coming home for Thanksgiving and maybe not even for Christmas, love you, bye!” on such short notice was going to be incredibly terrible.

        Unfortunately, he can’t really delay the inevitable, and as he sits, staring at his phone and dreading the conversation to come, an idea hits him. He could probably facetime his parents. It’s starting to get a little late here, which means both his mother and his step-dad should both be home. Actually talking to them and looking them in the face as he lies to them is better than doing it over the phone, right? Even though he’s still technically on the phone, but his point still stands. His thumb hovers over his mother’s contact information, her smiling face in her icon mocking him a bit, before he takes a deep breath and presses the camera button, the little notification that he’s video calling her popping up. For a few agonizing seconds, he’s afraid she’s not going to answer, and that all of the courage he gathered up to do this will be for naught and he won’t have the heart to try to do it again. The fates however are with him—or against him maybe in this case since he’s about to deliver bad news—when the call is answered, and the screen goes black before showing his mother’s smiling face.

        “Hi honey, what a pleasant surprise!”

        Seth manages a weak smile. “Hi Mom, how are you doing?”

        She chuckles and curls a piece of her hair behind her ear. “Oh, you know, just preparing for Thanksgiving and the start of the Holiday shopping rush. How are you honey, your job keeping you busy?”

        Seth tries desperately to hide his grimace at the mention of the Holiday. “It is, it definitely is.”

        His mom’s tone is hopeful. “Have you finished with all that training? You seem less exhausted than the last time we talked.”

        He watches his mom settle down against the couch of the living room before he speaks. “Yes, finally. I got promoted,” he says, which isn’t technically a lie, so it makes him feel better. “I’m on a trial period though, just to make sure I can handle all the facets of the job before they keep me on full time.” Also not technically a lie.

        “Congratulations honey, that’s great!”

        Guilt starts to settle in his stomach, making it feel heavy and fluttery all at the same time. He tries desperately to keep a straight face, keep everything feeling light, but even with all the training, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to keep the guilt out of his conversations with his parents.

        There’s a knock to his door, and before he can answer, and let whoever is on the other side know that he’s busy, the door opens, and Roman pokes his head in. “Seth are you—” he stops short when he sees the video going in Seth’s hand, and he actually has the decency to blush. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were on the phone, I’ll ask later,” he says, retreating out of the door before Seth can even reply.

        Seth’s mom chuckles. “Do you have company, honey? We can talk later.”

        Shit. Seth swallows and chuckles a little too. “Ah—no...um no. That was...that was Reigns— _Roman_ —" He corrects himself, the name sounding and feeling foreign on his tongue. "My roommate. One of them anyway.”

        Her face becomes a little sly and knowing. “He was very handsome from what I could see.”

        Seth’s face flushes scarlet and he almost chokes on his own saliva. “Mom, no!” He shouts, then quiets down, so his voice doesn’t cause any more unwanted interruptions. “He’s my _coworker_.” He adds, almost hushed and underneath his breath.

        Her face loses only a little bit of it’s knowing edge. “You’re living with one of your coworkers?”

        “Both, actually,” Seth admits. “Both of them are my coworkers.”

        His mother nods. “And how did that happen?” She asks in that motherly tone that implies that she’s quite curious but wants to remain nonchalant about it.

        Seth takes a deep breath. “We—the three of us—are part of a team.” He starts carefully. “We’re all working together on the same things in the same place, so we figured it would be easier to cut down costs and just get a place together.”

        “Do all three of you get along?”

        Seth shrugs. “Mostly,” he admits. “We’ve all got sort of strong personalities, so it’s been hard kind of adjusting to all living together. We kind of bump heads sometimes but I think it’s getting better?”

        She laughs. It crinkles her eyes and a flash of homesickness hits Seth stronger than it has in a very long time. “You think? Well at least it’s better than not knowing at all,” She jokes, and Seth laughs weakly along with her.

        A few moments of silence lapse between them, and Seth figures the time for small talk has come to an end. “Mom,” he starts, his tone a lot weaker than before, and his mother instantly catches up on it, her face falling. “I don’t think I’ll be able to come home for Thanksgiving,” he says quickly, trying to get it all out in one breath.

        Thankfully, his mother doesn't look too devastated when he manages to drag his eyes back to the screen of his phone. Her face looks a little melancholy, but there’s still a small smile on her face. “We figured that since we haven’t heard from you in a while that you’d probably wouldn’t be able to come,” she says. The guilty feeling at her admission knots terribly in Seth’s stomach, and he grimaces. She shifts on the couch, and runs a hand through her hair. “You feel bad, don’t you?”

        Seth sighs too, clenching a hand in the fabric of his shirt over his stomach. “Incredibly.”

        His mother chuckles ruefully. “Honey, there comes a time in every person’s life where most of the time, you won’t visit on Holidays. Something will come up, or you’ll have plans of your own, and that’s ok. You’re an adult now sweetie. You live far away and have a big important job and you’re living your own life.”

        “It’s the stupid trial period.” He blames it on that, even though he knows it’s more than that. He didn’t even think about going back until two days before. If he had kept better track of time, he maybe could have gotten the time off, requested it or something. “We have to be on call in case they need us.”

        “I can’t say I’m not disappointed that you can’t come,” She replies truthfully. “But I do understand. Your job is very important to you, and I can see that. I’m very glad you called because I always like talking with you, and I want you to know that there’s always an open invitation for you to visit at any time, no questions asked.”

        Seth sighs, feeling some of the guilt knot in his stomach unravel. “Thanks Mom, I appreciate the sentiment a lot.”

        Thankfully, probably sensing how guilty and actually stressed out this is making Seth, his mother switches to lighter topics, talking about family and what’s been going on around town. They talk easily for about another twenty minutes, before his mother glances at her wrist. “Well honey, I should let you go, it’s getting late there and I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

        Seth snorts. “I was the one who called _you_ , Mom,” he reminds her. She just rolls her eyes.

        “You get what I mean.”

        “Thanks for understanding,” Seth says, bringing the mood back down even though he doesn’t really want to. He needs to thank her again, because even though he still feels guilty, with all the lying and the disappointment, it could have gone _so_ much worse.

        She smiles again. “Like I said, honey, you’re always welcome here.” An idea seems to hit her, since her expression shifts. “Why don’t you try to celebrate with your coworkers slash roommates? I’m sure since they can’t go home either they’d appreciate a little something.”

        An image of the three of them sitting together with a huge Thanksgiving dinner spread out before them flashes through Seth’s head and he almost laughs out loud at the absurdity of it. “Maybe,” he says, a chuckle slipping through. “Bye Mom.”

        A sly smile spreads across her face. “Say hi to Roman for me.”

        Seth flushes again. “Good _bye_ Mom,” he says, and she just laughs, before the screen goes dark and the home screen of his phone pops up again.

        He looks at his phone for a few minutes more, before the screen goes completely dark. He sighs, all of the energy sagging out of him. He flops back onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes making shapes out of the stucco. Could have been worse, really. Definitely could have been worse.

 

***

        “What’s up?” Dean asks as Roman comes out the hallway, looking down at the floor. “Thought you were gonna ask—”

        The bigger man makes a face. “He’s busy,” he interrupts.

        Dean makes a face too. “What the hell could he be doing in there that qualifies as ‘busy’?” he asks, then his face falls and he sits up a little straighter. “Oh Christ did you catch him jerkin’ it?”

        Roman’s eyes snap to Dean’s. “No!” He says, his face scrunching up. He then sighs and covers his eyes with one hand, rubbing at his temples. “I think he was talking to his mom,” he says, much softer.

        Dean blinks. “Oh.”

        “Yeah.”

        A few terse seconds of silence pass between them before Dean speaks again. “Why—uh. Why do you think?”

        Roman runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “It’s Thanksgiving in two days?” He sighs again.

        Dean blinks, like he hadn’t even thought about it at all until now. “Oh.”

        Roman nods.“Yeah.”

        Dean clears his throat. “Should we uh, should we do something about it?” He asks, his tone hesitant.

        Roman only shrugs as he sort of plops down on the couch, his eyes closed. “Dunno.”

        “... _Do_ you wanna do something about it?” Dean asks a few seconds later, tone still tinged with hesitance.

        Roman’s eyes open. “Dunno.”

        Dean nods, as though he understands. “‘Kay.”

 

        Later, Dean is downing a glass of water in the kitchen with the light off—he can see well enough with the ambient light that he doesn’t bother with it—when he hears the sliding glass door to the balcony open. His first instinct is to crouch and press himself against the nearest surface, immersing himself into the shadows and trying to hide himself as much as he can in the limited cover. It takes him a moment to realize, glass still clutched tightly in his hand, that it’s only Roman coming in from the outside. Dean lets out a breath and makes to stand, placing the glass on the counter and ready to jokingly reprimand the Big Guy about ‘sneaking around’ when he hears Reigns speak. “Of course.”

        Dean freezes, half standing as he only partially sees the big Samoan carefully closing the sliding glass door behind him, his phone pressed to his ear. Roman starts to turn, and out of pure instinct, Dean shifts, moving out of the open space of the kitchen pass through window and behind the wall, cursing mentally at the action. He could have just let Roman see him, and then excused himself another room, but _no_ , his damn gut has forced him into this position. Fucking great.

        He’s not actively _trying_ to listen to Roman now, not really, but if he moves from his spot, Roman could see him, and then he’ll probably stop his phone call because he’ll think that Dean was eavesdropping on him and Dean doesn’t want that. Talk about ruining trust from the get go. He could cover his ears, try to block it out, but again, any movement alerting Roman to his presence isn’t something he wants to do, so he’s sort of trapped, not wanting to listen in on what is undoubtedly a private conversation, but unable to not.

        “Yes, everything is going well,” he hears Roman say. “We’ve been placed on the trial period and have completed our first operation assignment. Yes, we were told it went incredibly well and that Mr. Helmsley was very impressed.”

        Dean frowns. He’s talking about the trial period and Triple H? Who the hell could he be talking to that has the clearance level to even talk to that about? Now Dean is more intrigued than guilty, even though he still does feel a little guilty for listening in, and he leans just a little bit closer to the edge of the wall, so he can hear Roman better.

        A few moments of silence that probably signify that the big guy is listening to whoever is on the other line pass, and Dean feels himself hold his breath, trying not to make any unnecessary noise. He hears Roman let out a tiny sigh, something that could be misconstrued as just an exhalation of breath, before speaking. “No, I don’t believe being in a Stable is going to hinder me.”

        Dean blinks. Who the hell is he talking to? It has to be someone who’s involved in espionage, otherwise they wouldn’t know the terminology Roman is using, and hell, Roman wouldn’t be talking about it with them anyways. Out of the three of them, the big Samoan is definitely the one wouldn’t tell anyone any information that they weren’t allowed to know.

        So the question remains, who the hell was he talking to?

        “My stablemates aren’t going to outshine me,” Roman says then, his tone getting a little tight. It’s clear that he doesn’t agree with whoever he’s talking to, but doesn’t seem to have it in him to flat out tell them straight. It’s weird, even in the short year or so Dean has been aware of Roman as a person, he knows that the big guy ain’t exactly one to pull any punches, literally and metaphorically. “I think being able to show that I can work in a team environment is a good—No Sir.” Roman’s tone goes flat, almost cowed down, and the use of the honorific really perks Dean’s interest.

        Ok, so Roman is talking to someone of a higher position than him—which isn’t exactly all that hard considering their only recent move to Agent Status—and that someone is _very_ interested in what the Shield is doing.

        More terse silence passes, and Dean listens as hard as he can, trying to see if there’s anything else at all that he can hear. Unfortunately, Roman must be standing in just the right way just far enough from Dean that the slighter man can’t make out anything else. “Yes Sir,” Roman says finally, and he sounds more tired than Dean has ever heard him, and it makes him frown. “Yes, I will call them. Thank you Sir. Will you….will you say ‘Hi,’ to Mom for me?”

        Dean nearly blows his cover right then and there. _Say ‘Hi,’ to Mom for me?!_ So he was talking to his _D_ _ad_  all this time!?

        “Oh, she’s there?” Roman sounds pleasantly surprised, his voice lighter. “Yes, if that’s alright.” There’s another few seconds of silence, and Dean can hardly breathe as he tries valiantly not to blow his cover. “Hi, Mom.” Roman’s voice is warm in a way that makes Dean’s insides squirm at the unfamiliarity of it all. Roman doesn’t talk like this, at least the Roman he knows.

        They all got personal life outside of the business, Dean isn’t ignorant to that fact, it’s just that…he never really suspected that Roman would be so... _different_. It makes his stomach constrict a little.

        He presses his body even flatter against the wall, tilting his head back and looking up at the ceiling as he listens to Roman exchange pleasantries with his mother, just praying to anyone that’ll fucking listen that this ends soon. The tawny haired man moves incrementally, peering around the corner and cursing mentally. Roman is facing his only escape route to the hallway, and if he turns _just_ so, he’ll be able to see Dean. The younger man curses internally again, trying to step back, press himself into the darkness, keeping his eyes trained heavily on Roman now, who is _actually smiling_ as he talks to his mother.

        The smile falls a little however, and Dean watches, transfixed for a moment, as Roman looks... _embarrassed???_

        “No Mom...we haven’t…. _I_ haven’t had the—no.” Roman sighs and scratches at his beard. “I know, I know I should call them.”

        Dean’s brow furrows. Call who? His interest is piqued again, and he continues to listen, keeping an eye on Roman as often as he can so at to not reveal himself.

        Roman leans his head against the wall. “I miss them too, mom.” He then chuckles, and it makes Dean purse his lips. “And you.”

        Whatever his mom says in response is short, and Roman nods, even though he doesn’t need to. “Thanks Mom. Hope to see you soon. Love you.”

        He hangs up the phone, and Dean almost heaves a breath out. He can’t listen anymore, he really really can’t. He doesn’t care if he blows his cover anymore, he needs to get out, because that crossed into a super personal zone that he didn’t want to cross into, especially since Roman himself didn’t reveal any of it of his own volition. Thankfully, Roman finally moves, so Dean takes the opportunity. Ever so carefully, he turns away, trying to escape down the hallway without Roman hearing or seeing him. He honestly doesn’t think he’s ever had this amount of motivation to be stealthy, even when they were being tested for it in Developmental. As he’s moving, he hears Roman start to speak—he must’ve started another phone call—and his tone is less warm than when he was talking with his mother, but it sounds far less drained than with his father, less hollow. “Hey. Yeah, I know it’s been a while. I’m sorry—”

        That’s all Dean hears, because he finally turns into his room and as carefully as he possibly can shuts the door before leaning back against it and heaving out a huge breath.

        That was horrendous. No other word could possibly be strong enough to describe how bad that experience just was. A frisson of _ick_ rolls up and down his spine and he shivers with it. He feels like a skeezeball, just listening to all of that and not having the decency to reveal himself when things started to eek into the personal zone. But he was just too damn curious for his own good, and now he’s stuck, leaning against his bedroom door with all his weight, praying again to anyone that will listen that Roman hadn’t heard or seen him.

 

***

        Seth finally has it in him to pull himself up and out of the guilty space of being he let himself wallow in, and he leaves his room, needing something to drink and to maybe do something to clear his head so he doesn’t so spiraling back into Guilty Town.

        He’s not really thinking about either Ambrose or Reigns—especially since both of their bedroom doors are closed—as he walks, that when he sees Reigns standing in the kitchen with his phone to his ear, he kind of stops at the end of the hallway, catching the big Samoan’s attention. The big man’s face falls a little, and an expression that Seth can’t read crosses his face for about a millisecond, before his face is back to that neutrality that Seth is so used to seeing. Reigns turns his head away, and he says quietly. “I’m sorry, I have to go.” He waits for a response and Seth is still pretty frozen in the opening of the hallway, feeling like he should move, should try not to make this so awkward, but he still finds that he can’t move. “I know,” Reigns says, and his voice is soft in a way that Seth has never heard from him before. Not just in actual volume, but in tone as well. “I promise, I’ll call more often. I have a little more free time now, so maybe—Yes, right, of course. Thank you. Yes.” His voice goes even softer, and a shiver of something runs up and down Seth’s spine. “I love you too.”

        Warning bells, warning bells louder than ones he’s heard in a very very long time go off in Seth’s head. He watches as Reigns hangs up and turns to him, looking exhausted. “I’m sorry,” blurts Seth, still hanging out in the entryway to the hall. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

        Reigns’ mouth quirks up for a second. “Now we’re even from earlier.”

        Seth blinks. No way is that in any way, shape or form even. Seth knows that Roman was talking to someone he loved, and while Seth had been talking to his mother—whom he _very_ much loved—the way that Reigns had said, ‘I love you too,’ had sounded entirely different. “I’m still sorry,” Seth says, because he really, _really_ should not have heard that.

        The darker skinned man sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Holidays, you know?”

        “Tell me about it.” Seth still hasn’t moved.

        Reigns’ eyebrow quirks. “You gonna come out of the hallway?”

        Seth blinks a second time. Right. It takes him a moment, but Seth eventually moves, stepping out of the hallway and trying to mask his hesitation. It takes all that’s in him not to apologize again, and he chews in the inside of his lip just to make sure that he doesn’t. He lingers in the living room for a second, unable to remember really why he had come out there in the first place. The two men sort of exist for a second together, neither speaking as the awkwardness rises higher and higher each second. “Did you have something you wanted to ask me?” Seth says suddenly, remembering Reigns’ interruption to his own phone call earlier. Reigns blinks and glances at him, making a face. “From earlier?” Seth adds slowly.

        “Oh,” Reigns nods, then after a moment, shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

        “You sure?” Seth brow raises slightly.

        A wry smirk stretches Reigns’ lips for a second. “To be honest I don’t even remember what I was going to ask you,” he says truthfully.

        “Oh,” is all Seth can really say.

        More seconds of silence feel like minutes, creeping up Seth’s skin and making him jittery in a way he does not like. Neither he nor Reigns look as though they want to start a conversation, but neither of them move or disengage the situation, and the tension is getting a little crazy. “Um—” Reigns starts to say, and Seth can practically _feel_ how awkward whatever it is that the Samoan is going to say, but for once, Seth is actually glad when he hears Ambrose’s voice interrupt him.

        He appears at the entrance to the hallway, where Seth was stuck mere minutes before. “Why do you two look like you’re havin’ the most awkward stand off in the history of the world?”

 _Because we are_ , Seth thinks, trying his best not to let his face sour. The second tick by, and the tension in the room just gets worse and worse, and Seth honestly feels like he’s going to explode. “Do you guys want to do something for Thanksgiving?” he spits out, rather desperately just so the awkwardness will stop. Why he thought bringing up the holiday would do that he had no idea, but it's out there now, and he really can't take it back. “Do dinner or whatever?” He adds in a slightly more calm tone, trying to keep the mood light, trying to keep the attention off the inevitable awkward and weird conversation Reigns was no doubt about to start before Ambrose unceremoniously bathed in, as he always does.

        Both of the other Agents blink at him, like they aren't sure whether they heard him correctly or not. Possible minutes pass by—sure feels like minutes to Seth anyway—and he finally shrugs, like it's no big deal and he was just throwing out a suggestion like it was a thing to do.

        Finally, after what feels like an entire eternity, the silence is broken.

        “Sounds like some of that team-bonding kinda shit that Punk was talking about,” Ambrose says, itching lightly behind one of his ears. “And food is always good in my book, so whatever.”

        “I don’t think he would be very pleased that you call his advice and strategy, ‘shit,” Reigns says, his face pulled slightly tight, like he can’t decide whether or not he’s offended by what Ambrose said.

        Said man simply rolls his eyes.“Yeah well, I ain’t too worried that he’s gonna catch wind of it. Just because we’re spies doesn’t mean that he can _actually_ hear me at all times.”

        “So we like, really wanna do this?” Seth asks, a little skeptical. It feels like he’s having a weird out of body experience, like he can’t believe this is actually happening, like he’s watching all of this happen in third person.

        Ambrose shrugs. “Why not? Like I said, food is food. Why pass up an opportunity?”

        “Better than doing nothing,” Reigns agrees, and Seth just shakes his head in disbelief.

        He _cannot_ believe that worked.

 

        Deciding to actually have a Thanksgiving dinner two days before said day is not really the best planning-wise, but considering that between the three of them they almost forgot the holiday existed in the first place, they’re going to have to make do. Through the three of them, they sort of agree on a menu, and a backup menu just in case they make it to the store and everything Thanksgiving-like is already out of stock.

        The next day Reigns calls them an Uber, and Seth writes down everything with thinly veiled disbelief at the fact that this is actually happening, they’re going to have Thanksgiving dinner together. Seth chuckles underneath his breath. He should thank his mother the next time they talk to one another.

        “We should split up when we go in, cover more ground that way.” Ambrose says after he rolls out of the car. Thankfully the Uber was big enough that all three of them could fit in the back and none of them had to have the awkward duty of sitting next to the driver. Seth had also gotten in first, and he claimed the far seat before anyone could say anything, so he wasn't stuck in the middle again. That left Ambrose to be forced in the middle, but he had looked content enough with his skinny frame to be stuck there for the duration of the car ride.

        “In a store none of us have been in before?” Seth replies, incredulous, looking up from his phone with an arched brow.

        “I’ve been here before…” Reigns comments softly, like they all forgot who bought groceries last.

        “Sorry, in a store that only one of us has been to one time?” Seth corrects with only slightly less incredulity than before.

        Ambrose scoffs through his nose, pressing against the spot where his thumb meets his wrist with his opposite thumb. He repeats it on his other hand, cracking _whatever_ joints those are. “I don’t know about you Sethie, but I’m a big boy and I can read the aisle signs,” he teases, snapping his gum several times.

        Seth grumbles.“Fine whatever, go find the stuff you need for what you wanna make.”

        “Wow, ingredients for mashed potatoes and gravy, should be real hard.”

        “Just shut up and go.”

 

        It almost feels like the Divide and Conquer protocol the way that they immediately split up.

 

        The next time Seth sees Ambrose, he’s in the drink section with an armful of items that Seth is almost certain aren’t on their list. Regardless, the half blonde sighs and strides over to the other man with the cart, clearing his throat to get the taller man’s attention.

        Ambrose just looks up, and Seth gets a better look at all of the things in his hands. “I thought we were shopping for dinner,” he says dryly.

        Ambrose snaps his gum. “Was.” He unceremoniously dumps his cargo into the cart, carelessly on top of some of the vegetables Seth had grabbed. The bearded man sighs sharply and quickly starts to rescue the greens and stick them in the child seat so they don’t get any more crushed. “Should we get wine? Is that a Thanksgiving thing? Sounds like it.”

        Seth looks up from his veggie rescue for a second and half shrugs. “If you want it and you’re gonna pay for it then get it.”

        Ambrose makes a face. “I don’t like wine.”

        Seth finds the last vegetable—the sweet potatoes—and stows them away for safety. “Why am I not surprised?” He mutters underneath his breath. Just by looking at him Seth could say Ambrose is most definitely either a beer or hard liquor guy—maybe even both—and the finer nuances of wine are probably entirely lost on him. “Then don’t get any,” Seth says irritably, shoving all of Ambrose’s stuff out of the way in the cart. Honestly, can the man take care of anything?

        Ambrose suddenly shoves a bottle his way. “This ok?”

        Seth sighs and looks down, and it’s a bottle of apple sparkling cider. He looks back up at the other man. “Cider?” He asks slowly.

        Ambrose half shrugs. “It’s bubbly,” he replies, like it’s a sufficient answer.

        “Fine, whatever, put it in the cart,” Seth says, hoping with all his might that Ambrose has enough fucking sense not to toss the bottle into the cart with the same nonchalance that he did with the rest of his stuff. Thankfully, it does appear that the other man has some foresight and carefully places the bottle into the cart before turning and walking down the aisle without consulting Seth about anything more. Seth sighs deeply through his nose and follows after him, resting his forearms and his weight on the handle of the cart. He could ditch the other man, go find Reigns and get this shopping trip over with, but something tells Seth that if he leaves Ambrose any more unsupervised than he already has, the shopping trip may never end. So he keeps Ambrose in his sights.

        Unfortunately, Ambrose apparently has the proclivity to stop moving without telling Seth or paying attention to how close Seth is behind him, and finally, when neither of them are paying attention, Seth runs the cart right into the back of Ambrose’s heels.

        “Ow, shit!” He swears.

        Seth immediately pulls the cart back. “Why did you stop?!”

        “I was looking at something!” Ambrose says accusingly, like the entire thing is Seth’s fault.

        Said man makes a face. “Could you have at least _told_ me you were going to look at something before suddenly stopping like that?” He says, trying not to raise his voice but finding it increasingly hard as Ambrose stares at him, affronted.

        “Could _you_ at least pay attention to how close you are to me?”

        Seth heaves an exasperated sigh.“I wouldn’t have hit you if you hadn’t have stopped!”

        “If you were paying attention you wouldn’t have hit me regardless!” Ambrose fires right back, making Seth frown.

        It probably didn’t even hurt anymore, and really, they’re fighting about something so stupid in the middle of a fucking grocery store.

        “I’m sorry,” Seth says, without any real trace of sincerity.

        Ambrose just half sneers half smiles at him in that way he does where it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re forgiven.”

 

        It doesn’t seem to take any time at all for Ambrose to get over Seth running over the back of his feet. Soon enough he’s back to snapping his gum with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Should we get that jiggly stuff in a can, what is it?” he asks, glancing at the cans as they walk down the aisle.

        He’s behind Seth now—only so Seth doesn’t run into the back of his heels _again_ —and the younger man sighs. “Cranberry sauce?” He asks weakly, hoping that Reigns will appear soon and they can leave. Being with Ambrose in a grocery store is seriously like being with an unrestrained child.

        Ambrose smiles and chews his gum loudly. “Yeah, that!”

        “Do you want it?” Seth asks for what feels like the hundredth time.

        “Never had it before.”

        “Why do you keep asking me about stuff? If you want it, _just get it_.”

        Ambrose kind of stops, and Seth only _just_ resists letting out an exasperated noise. He looks back at the tawny haired man, who’s not chewing loudly on his gum anymore. He just kind of looks at Seth for a long moment, then shrugs, looking away. His speech is a little slurred from the gum in his mouth as he starts to chew again. “I’unno. Jus’ figured you know ‘bout this stuff more’n I do.”

        Seth stares. “Why would you think that?”

        “You’ve had more Thanksgivings than I ever have.” Ambrose says it with such absolution in his tone it’s hard for Seth to believe it to be anything else than the truth.

        “What, your family not celebrate it or something?”

        The taller man’s face doesn’t fall per say, but the content tone and body language from earlier is entirely gone. Seth watches him stand there, in front of some cans of cranberry sauce, looking like he’s lost, out of his element. The thought that he’d be out of place here, in a simple grocery store, is a little hard to believe. He finally speaks after a few moments of silence. “Hard to celebrate with a family when you don’t really got one in the first place.”

        Seth blinks. Oh… _shit_. Ambrose doesn’t elaborate more, just stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and walks away from the cans of cranberry sauce, scooting around the cart and walking ahead of Seth down the aisle. The half blonde man watches with pursed lips, guilt roiling up in his stomach. He curses underneath his breath and pushes the cart forward, following after Ambrose, feeling like a colossal asshole.

        However, he’s pissed at himself for feeling guilty in the first place. It’s not like he _knew_ Ambrose didn’t have much of a family and therefore didn’t get the chance to celebrate Holidays meanwhile Seth had been home for every holiday for twenty three years. It’s not like he asked out of malice. He’s also pissed that there’s a part of himself that feels guilty for having been able to experience those holidays in the first place. It’s not something he had any control over, and it’s not something he can go back and change at all, so why should he feel guilty? He only gets angrier when a little voice in his head tells him that he feels guilty because Ambrose appeared so jazzed about having Thanksgiving and now since Seth shot him down he’s probably gonna be mopey on what could very well be his first true Thanksgiving ever.

        “Son of a bitch,” Seth murmurs under his breath.

 

        Seth battles with himself on whether or not he should apologize to Ambrose, the little voices in his brain arguing back and forth and giving him a headache right behind his eyes. Thankfully, he doesn’t lose Ambrose, and Seth follows him through the aisles at a safe distance until they run into Reigns, who has his own hand basket full of things. “You get your stuff?” He asks them both as he notices them approaching.

        Ambrose snaps his gum once. “Yeah,” he says curtly, his hands still jammed into his jacket pockets.

        Reigns just turns his attention to Seth, a dark brow raised in question. The guilt Seth has been feeling skyrockets for a few seconds, and he shrugs, avoiding the Samoan’s gaze like the plague. “Well…” Reigns says slowly, returning his eyes to Ambrose. “I have one or two more things to get, that ok?”

        Ambrose shrugs. “‘S whatever,” He says, just as curt as before.

        “They’re this way,” Reigns replies, gesturing with his head. Ambrose starts to walk in that direction, and Reigns eyes Seth again as he passes. Seth swallows. He doesn’t like that look. That is the look of an imminent conversation happening between him and the big guy and that is not something he is looking forward to in the least.

 

        The rest of the shopping trip goes by without much further incident. As they approach the checkouts, Ambrose grabs his stuff out of the cart, not making eye contact with Seth as he does. He scoots to another line away from both Seth and Reigns, and the older man gives Seth another one of those looks he doesn’t like, which Seth just shrugs to. Reigns goes ahead of Seth in the same line, and Seth tries his very best to be kind to the incredibly chipper checker who rings them both up. They try to make small talk with Reigns first, but when he doesn’t answer—doesn’t even really look at them—Seth finds himself stepping in to try to rid the moment of the awkward tension. He makes small talk throughout the transaction, and thanks the checker as both he and Reigns walk away and meet back up with Ambrose, who’s managed to cram all of his purchases in a few bags. As they leave, he doesn’t even bother putting them back in the cart and even though it’s probably nothing, for some reason something in Seth seems to take it a personal offence, no matter how stupid the idea of that is.

        Thankfully, Reigns had once again called in a ride, and they don’t wait outside the store very long before they’re well on their way back home.

 

***

        Once they get back, Dean still hasn’t really said anything, and he quickly gets out of the car with bags in hand, not even bothering to offer to help either Seth or Roman with any of their bags. Roman just sighs, glancing at Seth, who’s frowning after Dean like he's personally offended or something. Grabbing all of his things—and some of Seth’s as well—the two of them follow after their teammate, who’s already inside the apartment by the time they get to the door.

        Roman can practically _feel_ how much Seth wants to comment, wants to say something nasty about Dean’s behavior underneath his breath like he thinks Roman can’t hear him, but he refrains for some reason. Roman checks a little box in his mind, Seth is definitely the one who caused Dean’s mood, so commenting on it when he’s the one to blame makes _him_ the asshole, not the other way around. Roman sighs as he carefully dumps his bags onto the kitchen counters. Still acting like fucking children.

        The three of them don’t say much to one another as they empty the bags of their groceries and put them away. Seth tries to carefully put everything in it’s place, and Dean just sort of dumps his stuff into one of the cupboards—bags and all—and leans against one of the kitchen counters, snapping quietly at his gum. Once Seth is finished, he leaves the kitchen without another word or a second glance. Roman sighs again, glancing at Dean, who hasn’t really moved. He’s sort of staring out into space as he chews harshly on his gum, obviously stuck in his own brain.

        “Will you put those cans away, Dean?” He asks, trying to strategically place everything that needs to go into the fridge and the freezer in a manner where nothing will fall out on any of them the next time it opens.

        Dean doesn’t actually respond, but Roman sees the man move out of the corner of his eye, so he doesn’t worry about whether or not he heard him too much. He knows something happened at the store, but bringing it up with Dean now is just going to make this bad mood he’s in last longer than it needs to, so Roman tries to maintain some sort of normalcy. He hears a cupboard door open, and the sound of plastic rustling, so he continues with his refrigerator Jenga.

        He hardly notices when the rustling stops, and once he deems everything safely in the fridge, he shuts the door, jerking a little bit in surprise to see Dean still standing at the counter. A can is in his hand, and he looks up at Roman.

        “Cranberry sauce,” is all he says.

        Roman blinks, looking from Dean’s face, to the can, back to Dean’s face again. “Yes?”

        A little quirk of a smile tweaks his lips, and Roman feels his own lips mirror it in response. He watches as Dean carefully places the can in the cupboard with the rest of them, that small little smile still on his face. Roman takes the opportunity to let his eyes roam over the other’s profile, taking in the details quickly. One little detail sticks out in particular for some reason; a little piercing mark in the lobe of his ear. Roman stares, picturing Dean with an earring quite easily.

        Roman is so busy staring, he doesn’t quite realize that Dean turns his head back and their eyes meet. Dean’s smile gets just a little bigger, his teeth _just_ poking out from behind his lips. “Somethin’ on my face, big guy?” He asks.

        Roman’s eyes finally flick away. “No,” is all he says, and thankfully, Dean doesn’t comment.

        However, the big guy misses Dean’s face falling, just a little bit.

 

***

        Roman wakes up on Thanksgiving as he usually does, first one up and at the crack of dawn. Normally, he would almost immediately roll out of bed and start his day with a shower. Now however, he allows himself a few minutes to stare up at the ceiling, his mind not entirely focusing on anything enough to consciously form into thoughts that linger. He stares, rather unseeing at the stucco above, and just exists. It’s rather nice sometimes, letting his mind just float for a little while, before everything sharpens into focus and his mind slips back into reality. With a great sigh, he heaves himself upwards and out of his bed, rubbing at his eyes with one hand and blinking away the sleep from them. He contemplates whether or not making coffee before bathing is worth it, and decides against it. As he quietly exits his room and steps across the hallway to the bathroom, he secretly hopes the shower isn’t loud enough to wake Dean up. Well, if he takes a short one and focuses mostly on washing his hair it should be fine.

        While it feels a little off not to have turkey for Thanksgiving dinner, Roman is actually eternally glad that he—or any of them really—don’t have to deal with that whole thing. Thanksgiving was such a big fucking to-do in his family, that the idea of not having to go through the stress of helping his mother and aunts cook for their entire humongous extended family lifts a weight off of his shoulders. He maybe feels a little bad leaving them high and dry to cook for themselves a second year in a row, but he’s expected to be here, in WWE, and he’s expected to excel. So here he’ll stay unless told otherwise.

        The menu the three of them came up with should be perfectly adequate enough.

        Wandering into the kitchen, with his hair still damp from the shower and spilling over his shoulders, Roman immediately makes a beeline to the cupboard where the instant coffee grounds are. Maybe sometime in the future they can spring for an actual coffee maker, but for now, this’ll do. With quick motions he sticks his mug full of water into the microwave, then checks in the fridge and makes a mental calculation on whether or not he should eat a light breakfast, in addition to what order they should make all their food tonight so everything finishes relatively at the same time.

        While he’s idly sipping his coffee and thinking, Roman hears someone stepping rather loudly in the hall, and he refocuses on what’s outside his brain.

        Dean comes out of the hallway, squinty eyed with his already messy hair floofed up and pointing every which way from sleep. Roman chuckles through his nose as the man pads into kitchen, not even acknowledging the Samoan and getting a glass of water for himself. Roman watches, honestly curious, and notices that Dean has something cupped in his left hand. He continues to watch, taking a swig of his own coffee while Dean takes a sip of water, before tossing whatever is cupped in his hand, into his mouth. Roman instantly makes the connection. “Supposed to eat with those.”

        Dean turns to him, finally acknowledging him for the first time since he walked in—the mouthful of water and pills limiting his speech—but the look he gives Roman speaks volumes. He swallows poignantly, his already rough voice all the more husky from sleep. “Plan on gettin’ plenty of food today, Mom.”

        Roman rolls his eyes and steps past Dean, who goes to finish off his water. The bigger man flicks his ear as he passes, and Dean makes a noise through the water still in his mouth. “Stop callin’ me Mom.”

        Dean swallows. “Then stop actin’ like it,” he fires back.

        Before Roman can get another quip in, Seth enters the kitchen, dressed in mesh shorts and a t-shirt with his hair tied back in a bun. He kind of stops in the entryway, glances at Roman and Dean, before offering a quick, almost reflexive smile. “Morning.”

        “Good morning,” Roman replies, gesturing with his mug towards Seth before taking a drink.

        “You goin’ somewhere?” Dean asks, eyeing Seth with his arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the counter in front of the microwave. Whether or not he’s asking due to curiosity or suspicion, Roman isn't sure. Maybe with Dean it’s always a little of Column A, little of Column B.

        “On a run,” is Seth’s simple answer. He approaches the sink and unscrews the cap of his water bottle.

        Dean narrows his eyes at him. “Are you one of those people who exercise on Holidays so you can, ‘justify’ eating a shit ton?”

        “I go for a run pretty much every morning, Ambrose,” Seth points out, flicking on the sink and filling up his bottle. “Something you’d know if you cared to pay attention,” he adds, his tone tinged with passive-aggressiveness.

        Roman lets out a sigh into his mug, entirely past the point of caring whether or not the other two hear him.

        “Didn’t answer my question,” Dean teases lightly, and Roman is actually rather pleased and impressed when Seth simply rolls his eyes and doesn’t buy in to the goading.

        The half blonde man screws the top of his water bottle closed. “I’ll probably be gone about half an hour, maybe forty five minutes,” he says, glancing at Roman. “Then we can talk about how we wanna go about today?”

        Roman nods. “Sounds good. Have a nice run.”

        Seth blinks for a moment, like he didn’t expect Roman to say that, but then he smiles, a little less reflexive and a little more genuine than the previous one. “Thanks,” he says, before turning to leave.

        Dean just scratches at his curls, grumbling. “Why so much planning? We’re just makin’ food, how hard can it be?”

        Roman finishes off his coffee and answers as he goes to the sink to rinse out his mug. “Gotta make sure all the food is done at the same time.”

        Dean makes a face. “Oh. Guess so, huh?”

        “Mmhm.”

 

***

        Seth comes back a little over a half an hour later while Roman is cleaning. There isn’t much to clean around the house really, but he wanted something to do with his hands, and the repetitive and menial task of cleaning is good enough for that. He’s in the middle of sweeping the entryway when the door swings open, and Seth comes practically bouncing in all his sweaty post run glory. He’s smiling, and still panting, as if he ran all the way upstairs, which if Roman thinks about it, is entirely possible. He stops sweeping. “Good?” He asks.

        Seth’s dark eyes find him, and he looks a little dazed, like he just noticed Roman standing there even though he’s been right in front of him ever since he came in. The half blonde chuckles and he pushes some of the hair that came out of his bun out of his eyes. “Yeah, was good.”

        Roman nods and moves out of the way so the smaller man isn’t stuck in the entryway, and Seth’s swallows once before nodding to himself. Roman takes notice that Seth is very careful not to step in the pile he just swept up as he passes. He then heads into the kitchen and out of Roman’s sight.

        The big man turns his attention back to sweeping, kneeling down so he can sweep it all up into the dustpan. “Reigns?” Roman doesn’t move his head to look up, sees that Seth’s head is poking past the wall to the kitchen, and raises a brow. Seth clears his throat, glancing away for a second, and maybe Roman is imagining it, but there seems to be pink tinged on the younger man’s cheeks. “R-Roman.” He corrects himself.

        “Yes?”

        “I can help clean, if you want.”

        Roman blinks, taken aback slightly. “I wasn’t—” He clears his throat and tries again. “I was just cleaning to pass the time.”

        Seth raises a brow. “You sure?”

        “Yeah.”

        “Ok.”

        “Alright,” Seth replies, heading back into the kitchen. Roman looks down for all of two seconds before Seth’s head pops back out from behind the wall. “You eat yet?”

        “No,” Roman replies, quickly sweeping up the dust pile and standing. “Haven’t decided what.”

        Seth chews on his bottom lip for a moment, before nodding. “Ok. I’m um, gonna take a shower.” He throws a thumb towards the hallway. “Did Ambrose go back to sleep?”

        Roman sighs, then shrugs. “Not as far as I know.” It’s not like he’s Dean’s keeper.

        Seth nods again. “Ok.”

        Roman watches as Seth turns and walks quickly out of the kitchen without another word or look towards Roman. The elder man sighs again, heading into the kitchen so he can dump out the dustpan.

 

***

        By the time Seth steps out of the shower, Roman has run out of things to clean. He’s standing in front of the sink, drying his hands on the towel and trying to think of something else he can do, since it’s entirely too early to start making dinner now.

        He’s never done well with idle. Developmental was great since almost every hour of every day he was _doing_ something, and now, he’s been given freedom in a way that he hasn’t had in literal _years_ . There’s an ache, an itch in him that’s telling him to stop wasting time and _do_ something, even though at this point, there is nothing _to_ do.

        “Hey Big Guy, you ok?” Dean’s voice snaps him out of his brain—where he wasn’t even aware he had drifted that far into—and Roman glances, just briefly, to acknowledge that he heard the man.

        “Yeah,” he replies, hanging the hand towel back in it’s rightful place.

        “Towel real interesting or something? Did it offend you?” Dean jokes, leaning against the kitchen entryway with his arms crossed and a smirk stretching his cheeks. “Were you having a staring contest?”

        Roman actually turns his head this time. “Just thinking.”

        Dean’s hair is less unruly than it was earlier, looking as though the man had at least tried to run his fingers through the strands and tame it into some semblance of order. “Well that’s boring,” Dean concludes, sounding actually a little disappointed.

        “Tell me about it,” Roman agrees, and it earns him a laugh. Dimple depress Dean's cheeks for a moment, and Roman takes notice of the fact.

        “Hungry?”

        “You offering to make somethin’?” Roman asks with a raised brow.

        Dean just shrugs. “Could make Happy Bowls again.”

        Roman purses his lips for a second. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

        Seth’s voice pipes up behind Roman, and the Samoan watches with a stilted sigh as Dean’s face falls. “Opposed to what?”

        “Breakfast,” Roman replies over his shoulder before Dean can say anything snarky.

        Seth’s head cocks to the side. “Breakfast sounds good,” he affirms, then glances at Dean for a moment.

        Dean shrugs. “Sure, whatever.”

 

        Dean makes French Toast that’s a little on the burnt side for Roman’s taste. However, with a good amount of butter and syrup, they turn out just fine. He doesn’t miss the little smile Dean makes as they all eat, both he and Seth thanking him for the food.

        Despite the fact that they’ve just eaten, Seth suggests once again that they start to plan how they want to go about dinner this evening, and hey, since they did already eat, no one is going to be looking at this from a hungry perspective, something that Roman has experienced with his own family when it comes to dinners like these. Anybody planning anything involving food on an empty stomach is a recipe for disaster. Roman lets out a huff of breath out of his nose at the unintentional pun, and how it’s struck him that they’re planning this like it’s one of their missions or something.

        Since they aren’t making turkey, it’s not quite as hard to plan everything around when it would be coming out, but still, their kitchen isn’t exactly equipped to handle all three of them making their own dishes at the same time.

        “Mashed potatoes don’t take too long, and they can be reheated real easy. Probably just make those first?” Dean suggests, glancing at Roman with a tinge of hesitance in his tone, like he’s not quite sure what he’s saying is right. Roman returns with his own quick glance and nod.

        “Sounds good.”

        “I could probably make the stuffing at the same time since the oven is going to be free,” Seth mumbles in reply, half to himself and half to Roman and Dean.

        Dean makes a face. “Why’re we makin’ stuffing if there isn’t any turkey?”

        “Stuffing isn’t required to be _in_ turkey, Ambrose,” Seth replies, again a little low in tone, like he’s only half listening and only truly focused on the calculations he’s making in his head.

        “Then why do they call it, ‘stuffing’?” Dean replies with a poignant look that is only half serious, his arms crossed over his chest.

        Seth rolls his eyes. “You’re an ass.”

        Dean’s smile is all fake. “Takes one to know one.”

        “Steaks should probably be last,” Roman changes the subject quickly because _honestly_. “Shouldn’t take too long, depending on how we cook ‘em.”

        Dean’s smile turns a little less fake. “Sounds good to me.”

        Seth thankfully doesn’t chase the argument either, thankfully. “Everything else I think we can make it as we go along?” He asks, glancing up at his roommates.

        Dean shrugs. “I can work with that,” and Roman simply nods in agreement.

        A little quirk of a smile catches Seth’s cheek. “Ok, sounds good.”

 

***

        Roman only _just_ resists the urge to physically toss both of his teammates off the balcony when they actually start arguing over stove and oven space. He’s chopping ingredients for a salad on the kitchen table just so he doesn’t take up so much space, and also because it prevents him from actually hitting them over the head with something. He chops silently, maybe a little harder than he should, but it’s helping him get his frustrations out without potential physical harm to anyone else in the house.

        “You’ve been fiddling with that forever, how much more could it take?” Seth grouses, standing behind Dean with a glass dish full of stuffing.

        “You’ve obviously only ever had mediocre mashed potatoes,” Dean fires back, continuing to attack the inside of the pot. “You gotta mash all the lumps out.”

        Seth makes an annoyed hum. “Can’t you just move for like thirty seconds so I can put this in the oven and get started on the rolls?”

        Dean looks over his shoulder. “We have rolls? What kind?”

        “The flaky kind,” Roman pipes up from his place at the kitchen table, starting to dump all of his chopped vegetables into a giant bowl. “Now scoot.”

        “I’m doing it for the rolls,” Roman hears him say to Seth, and the big man sighs under his breath.

 

        Eventually— _finally_ —they get their shit together, and Roman gets the chance to shoo the others out of the kitchen and actually start cooking the main dish.

 

        “How do each of you want your steak?” He asks carefully, gesturing with the meat pinched between the tongs.

        “Medium rare.”

        “Pink in the middle please.”

        Roman sighs in relief, plopping the meat down on the pan. It gives an audible hiss. “Thank God. If either of you had said ‘well done’ I was going to have to move out.”

        “Anyone who tells you they like their steak well done isn’t human,” Dean declares. “I’ve tried, it just tastes like sadness and takes ten thousand years to chew fully. Sin against nature I tell ya.”

 

        Mercifully, neither Seth nor Dean start any more fights, and when they’ve finally gotten all of the food prepared and have actually sat down and started eating, the quiet, distraction-less atmosphere isn’t nearly as tension riddled as it was yesterday at the store. Dean tries the cranberry sauce, smiling and chuckling at how much it jiggles when he tries to cut it, shoveling it into his mouth kind of like he’s eating jello. He makes a face and states that he likes the flavor, but combined with the texture, it’s feels off in his mouth. From across the table, Seth stares at Dean, before seeming to realize what he’s doing before clearing his throat and focusing intensely on his plate. Roman sips on his cider and considers him for a moment. He still has to talk to Seth about what happened the day before to make Dean so clipped, and he knows that the half blonde man has been doing everything in his power to avoid having to do that. Thankfully, the tawny haired man seems to be in much higher spirits than he was yesterday, so at least there’s that.

        The food that each of them prepared is great as well, each dish working well with the other. They eat in relative silence, just with the occasional quiet exclamation about how good the food is and comment here and there. It’s pretty nice, all things considered. There hasn’t been too much drama between Seth and Dean, and Roman can always count that as a plus. After a particularly long stint of silence between them all, Seth opens his mouth as if to speak, however Dean beats him to it.

        “If the next thing out of your mouth is to suggest that we should go around and tell each other what we’re thankful for I will lose all respect for you and then punch you. Then vomit.” He says, a serious look in his bright eyes and his grip tight on his steak knife. “Maybe in that order, maybe not.”

        Seth scoffs and rolls his own eyes. “Hell no,” he replies, shoving a piece of steak into his mouth. He lets out a pleased hum before adding. “Was just gonna say I’m glad we actually got to _have_ Thanksgiving this year.”

        Dean snorts and gestures with his fork. “Yeah, compared to what we were doing last year? Some good old fashioned interrogation training followed by some mess hall slop.” He takes a sip of his cider. “Welcome to the big show boys, Happy Holidays.”

        Roman grimaces. Yeah no, he’d much rather be here, no matter how strained and tentative the relationship between them might be at it’s current state. “Much better,” he agrees.

        Their good natured mood sours however, when a familiar alert tone sounds right in the middle of the following silence. The three Agents freeze, and both Roman and Dean’s eyes train on Seth, who reaches into his pocket to pull out is phone. He unlocks it, and scans the message. His eyes close and he sighs, tilting his head towards the ceiling.

        “No.” Dean says, finality in his voice.

        Seth’s eyes flutter back open. “Yes.” He replies, with equal finality.

        “Fuck.” Roman adds under his breath, reaching and gulping down the rest of his cider.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *casually dumps 10,000 words of textual diarrhea filler into one chapter* Writing emotionally constipated men who don’t really know how to be people can be very exhausting.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for 1,000 hits, and again for all your kudos and comments! I am just a simple boy who loves these dumb wrestle boys and the fact that so many people like this story still amazes me so much, so thank you again!

***

        To say that the three of them are annoyed as they pull up to the WWE building would be a gross understatement to the highest degree. Even though the message has said it was urgent, the fact that they weren’t even allowed enough time to change or even finish their dinners, speaks volumes to the severity of the upcoming assignment.

        They check in the building without any mishaps—a small miracle in and of itself—and are rushed by several WWE personnel to the closest conference room. There are a few technicians there, as well as Punk, who is pacing back in forth in short strides, speaking quickly. As the Shield members are rushed inside, he turns, his face grim and his lips pursed tight. Whatever is going on, it isn’t good.

        Seth can practically feel his brain flicking into mission mode. He steps forward. “What’s going on, Punk? Another trial operation?”

        Punk sighs heavily through his nose. “I wish it were only that.” He reaches to where there is a rather small file on the table beside him, picking it up and offering it to Seth, who immediately reaches to take it and start reading.

        “Alert said that the situation was urgent,” Reigns says behind them.

        “Yeah, how urgent we talkin’?” Ambrose pipes up as well. “Like, ‘We need you to get this package from _Point A_ to _Point B_ in X amount of time,’ urgent? Or more like, ‘Global thermonuclear war is imminent unless we literally do something about it _today_ ,” kind of urgent?”

        Seth glances up from the file to look at Punk. The man runs a hand over his face. “‘Political dignitary has been taken hostage,’ kind of urgent.”

        “Shit,” Ambrose replies.

        Shit indeed.

        “Is there a particular reason WWE has been called in for this?” Reigns asks, seamlessly striding over to Seth and taking the file as it’s handed off to him.

        Punk nods. “Normally we would let the FBI or a similar organization handle this, unfortunately for us, they’ve decided to hit us where it hurts.”

        “‘Us?’” Ambrose inquires.

        Punk gestures to the file. “The Senator has supported the WWE—financially and morally—essentially since its conception. That information has been leaked somehow, and he’s been subsequently taken.”

        “So he’s being used as fodder to get to us. A bargaining chip,” Ambrose says, and Seth half nods with Punk, coming to the same conclusion. It’s the only thing that makes sense if they’re the ones handling it.

        “We received this message right before we called you boys in,” Punk says, nodding at one of the technicians, who nods back and presses a key on his laptop.

 

_“Greetings Sir. Since I’m not one to beat around the bush, and I don’t want to waste yours or my time, I’ll make this call quick.” A voice starts. There’s a slight distortion to it, probably a precaution so that the caller’s voice wouldn’t be recognized. “I and my colleagues have taken Senator Anderson hostage, and are planning to kill him unless our demands are met. I won’t waste either of our time in regards to why this should concern you, since we both know it does.”_

        There is a pause, but no sound, as if the caller is planning what he’s going to say next carefully. However, another voice speaks up. It’s the voice of an elder gentleman, and it trembles as he speaks. _“My name is Cecil Anderson, and I have in face been taken hostage. This is not a joke, this is not a drill. My life is in serious danger.”_

        Punk gestures and the technician pauses the audio. He addresses the Shield. “Before any of you ask, yes, we’ve run vocal analysis on known recordings of that voice and we are almost one hundred percent certain that that was Senator Anderson speaking.”

        Seth frowns as he nods. That was something that had been going through his head. With kidnapping and ransoms, it’s usually very difficult to guarantee that the kidnappers did indeed have who they say they have. Whoever these people were who kidnapped the Senator Anderson, they’ve obviously done this before.

        At another gesture from Punk, the technician starts the recording again.

_“Our demands are quite simple. In exchange for the Senator’s life, we require half a million dollars to be arranged in unmarked, non sequential notes of varying value. You will send in one man to do the exchange. He must be unarmed, as well as have no means of communication on his person at the time of the trade. The money will be taken, and Senator Anderson will be returned to you.” The speaker pauses again. If our demands are not met, I assume you can only imagine what will befall your precious patron. At 2100 hours tonight, we will meet at the coordinates that have been sent to you. If we believe that you are sending more than one man to the exchange, we will personally kill everyone, including the Senator. We have nothing to lose Mr. McMahon, so choose wisely.”_

 

        As the recording ends, and at the mention of the name, Seth’s head perks up. “This was sent to Mr. McMahon?” He asks, his eyes wide.

        Punk nods solemnly. “It was called on his personal number, so we know that this isn’t something to take lightly.”

        “ _Shit_ ,” Seth swears, running a hand through his hair. He hears Reigns and Ambrose both swear as well.

        “For safety reasons, Mr.McMahon has been moved to a secure location until this threat has been neutralized,” one of the technicians says, typing away at his computer.

        “You want us to kill the kidnappers?” Ambrose asks flat out, addressing Punk.

        “If it comes down to it, I doubt Mr. McMahon will be angry about it,” the man replies honestly, running a hand over the shorn back of his head. “However, we still don’t know if these men are acting alone, are working for someone else, or if their organization is bigger than we think it is.”

        “This is a bunch of bullshit,” Ambrose scowls.

        Punk lets out a humorless laugh out through his nose. “Tell me about it.”

        “My question is why they would ask for that amount of money in the first place.” Seth wonders aloud, stroking a hand over his mouth. “In retrospect, Mr. McMahon and the WWE could potentially afford to pay off _vastly_ more than that.”

        “A huge amount of money is hard to get in the way that they want it in the time that they want it,” Ambrose comments, starting to pace back and forth. He gestures lightly as he explains. “This looks like a rushed plan on their part. The Senator was abducted literally probably hours ago—” he glances at Punk, who nods in affirmation. “—And they wanna do the exchange tonight. From what I can tell, this wasn’t a long suffering, intensively planned out kidnapping. I’d wager they found out that he was linked to us probably anywhere from a few days ago to this morning. But that also kind of works in their favor since we can’t really waste time trying figure out who exactly they are.”

        Reigns looks up from the file. “So this is just a crime of opportunity.”

        Seth shakes his head. “Who knows, depending on whether or not they’re working alone or for someone else.”

        “Unfortunately, the kidnappers are at least _relatively_ smart. They used a phone that we have until this point been unable to track, as well as used something to scramble the signals, so we haven’t been able to triangulate where the call was made.” Punk explains, beginning to pace once more. “All we have to go on is where Mr. Anderson was picked up, and the general area where the suspects may have taken him in the amount of time between the kidnapping and now. We don’t believe they’ve gone far, but it looks as though they’re out of the way enough that trying to send in more than a few people at a time is going to end in unnecessary bloodshed.”

        Seth’s eyes follow their mentor, his pinched brows forming a little knot between them. He hesitates. “You think they’ll risk killing Senator Anderson?”

        Punk stops walking. “If they don’t get what they want, yes.” His tone is final.

        “They know who we are as an organization, which in and of itself is a feat. The fact that they’re willing to exploit a known benefactor tells us that they either want our resources, or they want to cut us off from the resources we have. Regardless of what happens, the kidnappers feel as though this is a win-win situation for them.”

        “Crime of opportunity,” Reigns repeats with a nod, closing the file and sliding it over Ambrose’s way, who of course—Seth notices—does not even glance at it.

        door to the conference room opens, and all eyes turn to see a man poking half of his body through the doorway. It looks like another technician, and he clears his throat before speaking. “Punk, you’re wanted up top.”

        Punk frowns, his hands on his hips. “By who’s clearance?”

        The man swallows. “Mr. Helmsley, sir.”

        Punk sighs deeply and closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Alright, I’ll be up in a minute.” He waves a hand away as if swatting a fly out of his vision.

        The man at the door makes a face. “Um, Mr. Helmsley wanted me to escort you myself, sir.”

        Seth just manages to see Punk roll his eyes skyward before letting out an even more exhausted sigh. “Fine.” He turns to Seth. “You have your assignment. I’m sorry there isn’t much to go on, but we don’t really have the time. I trust you guys can make the best out of this situation as you can.”

        “We’ll get it done, Boss,” Ambrose replies.

        The elder man gives a tight nod before stepping towards the door. Seth hears the distaste in Punk’s voice trail away as he steps out after the technician. “Did Hunter happen to tell you _what_ was so important that he needed to pull me away—”

 

***

        With Punk gone, it’s just the three of them and the technicians, who seem to be absorbed in trying to find out any other scrap of information to provide for them before they have to set off. Dean watches Rollins ask politely to keep them posted on any new developments before shifting over to the other side of the conference room so that the three of them can talk strategy together.

        The half blonde opens the file onto the table and spreads out it’s contents for all three of them to see, but Dean doesn’t even glance at it more than to see the picture of what this Anderson guy looks like. There isn’t anything else in that tiny ass file that’ll give him any more information than what they’ve discussed already.

        “We don’t have a floor plan of the building where Senator Anderson is being held, so I don’t think we’ll be able to get in there without someone noticing…” He says underneath his breath. “And we don’t know exactly how many targets and the weapons situation…”

        Dean presses his palms flat against the table, leaning in to look Rollins in the eye. “These assholes who have this guy hostage are going to be armed and dangerous and we’re gonna to have to treat and engage them that way, regardless of what we know.” He says. “We can’t out maneuver them. There’s no two ways about that Rollins.”

        Said man looks up from the haphazardly thrown together file, his lips flat. He stares Dean down, but the taller man keeps the gaze, unwavering in his seriousness. Rollins sighs and looks away, unable or unwilling to maintain eye contact with Dean.“I know,” He admits softly. “I just hate going into a potential fire fight with such little information to go on. Too many things can go wrong.”

        “Why do you think they called _us_ in to do this?” Roman asks, and it isn’t clear whether or not it’s rhetorical or not.

        Dean scoffs through his nose, pulls his gaze away from Rollins, and stands up straight. “I don’t know, we’re expendable?” He jokes. The suck ass thing about it is the fact that it’s only a half joke, really. Regardless of whether or not they’ve got this new, fancy—albeit tentative—enforcer position, they’re still greenhorns in this company, so no matter how good they are at what they do, WWE potentially still sees them as something they can lose.

        Rollins sighs and pushes the file away from himself with a frown. “Regardless as to what the reason is, we were picked and we’re gonna have to produce some results,” he says, his tone clearly not amused. “I imagine it won’t look very good if we don’t show up with Senator Anderson at least alive when the mission is done.”

        Dean rolls his eyes. “Or if we don’t come back at all.”

        Roman reaches out and smacks Dean’s bicep with the back of his hand. “That ain’t the right kind of thinking and you know it, so quit it,” he scolds.

        “Hard not to when they’ve literally given us nothing more than, ‘Senator’s hostage at _maybe_ this location by _maybe_ these people who are _maybe_ going to kill us on sight, but go fucking get him anyways,” Dean fires back, giving Roman a look.

        “The intel is bad because these guys to an extent knew what they were doing, they’re trying to get at WWE for some reason, and honestly I would be more inclined to try to find out _why_ rather than go in there blind, but if it’s all we have to go on, that’s all we have.” Rollins says, pulling some of the pieces of the file back to him and reading looking through them like another time might reveal something he’s accidentally missed.

        “We either lose Anderson and WWE loses a big name, we get Anderson back but we still have to deal with these fucking guys, or we die.” Dean counts on his fingers, his brows pulling further and further together as he speaks.

        “And all scenarios are less than desirable,” Roman comments dryly.

        “Out of the frying pan and into the fucking oven,” Dean mumbles under his breath before sighing harshly through his nose.

 

***

        A decision is made between the three of them that the best option for them now is to get as close as they dare to the exchange location and psychically scout out what they’re dealing with. Sitting around and philosophizing on what they were going to do wasn’t doing anyone any fucking favors.

        Rollins drives them, an unassuming SUV that can carry their weapons and gear. They find a building not too far away from the site with a fire escape they can easily climb up, and as quickly as they can, they haul themselves, as well as their gear up. Using a map, they triangulate their position with the coordinates they were given, and spy a small, un-presuming shipping building just near the outskirts of town. The more Dean looks at it through his binoculars, the more he doesn’t like it. As far as he can see, there’s only one window that they can see at this vantage point, and there isn’t any indication that any of them will be able to enter in from any other points in the building besides the front entrance. They’re running out of time, and every plan Dean tries to cycle through his head always comes up with either the Senator dead, one of the Shield dead, or all of them dead. _Fucking hell._

        “Both of you brought your rifles, right?” Rollins suddenly asks, and Dean gives him a look.

        “...Yeah?” He asks, not particularly liking where he thinks Rollins is going with this.

        The younger man sighs, as if he has reservations about what he’s going to say next. “The only strategy I can see even remotely working is me going in there alone and having both of you as backup on your guns.”

        Dean shakes his head, his brows furrowed. No way, there is no way in _hell_ he’s gonna let this happen. He ain’t gonna let Rollins with his stupid glory mongering goody two shoes attitude run into certain doom all by himself. “You can’t go in there alone,” He says, his tone no-nonsense, staring Rollins down.

        But Rollins’ stare is equally strong. His voice however, is not, and it doesn’t escape Dean that it isn’t. “You know I have to.”

        “Bullshit!” Dean swears. “There has to be some other way—”

        The half blonde shakes his head. “ _We don’t have time_ ,” he emphasizes.

        Dean takes another breath, to try and argue, to try and talk some fucking sense into this idiot, but he knows that Rollins is right. He lets out the breath through his nose and licks his lips. Out of the three of them, Rollins the best negotiator, the best at making good out of a bad situation with his words….and he’s right, they don’t have the time. He sighs again. “Are you _sure_ that you can do this?”

        Rollins actually has the audacity to throw a wry smile his way. “This is what I _do_ Fringe. Let me do it.”

 

        Seconds that feel almost like hours pass as the two stare each other down.

 

        Roman doesn’t peer back from his own binoculars as he speaks up. “I have visual. It’s minimal, but it’s there.”

        “Good,” Rollins breathes, running his hand through his hair. He glances at his phone, exhaling. “I better get going.”

        Dean frowns. “Don’t do anything stupid or heroic, Rollins. You’ll be dark out there except from what Big Dog and I can see, and as far as we can tell it ain’t much. Line ‘em up as best you can so we can take ‘em out.”

        Rollins’ face quirks up in a humorless smirk as he nods. He turns away, ready to drive himself into a potential death trap. Dean watches him walk to the edge of the roof, stepping carefully down onto the fire escape ladder and using it to disappear out of sight. Dean sighs and turns away.

        “Fringe.” Dean’s head turns. Rollins’ head is just peeking out from above the rooftop. Dean just has enough time to catch what the other man has thrown at him. It’s a key. “Don’t miss,” he says, and even though they’re fairly far away from one another, and Rollins had spoken softly, Dean can hear just a slight tinge in his voice that gives away how calm he isn’t.

        Dean nods once. “I don’t.”

        And with that, Rollins is gone.

 

***

        Seth tries his hardest to remember his breathing exercises. He’s changed into civilian clothes, and has no weapons on him—for fear of them being discovered and both he and Mr. Anderson being killed—and he’s passed the point of nervous to where he’s in this almost hyper aware calm.

        He knows that the car can only take him so far, and he’ll have to abandon it before he gets as close to the building as he wants to. He goes over the details of the instructions the kidnappers repeatedly under his breath as he drives, following the GPS to the coordinates they specified. The further and further he goes from where Reigns and Ambrose are stationed, the more his brain sends alarm bells. Too much unknown, too many factors, bail, _bail,_ **_bail_ **! Yet he continues to drive, because he has to.

        Finally, building is within sight, about a mile or so away from his only two backup. It’s not too long of a drive of course, only a few minutes, but he might as well be a thousand miles away.

        He parks, and looks at the time. He has three minutes. Three more minutes before his life could change forever, or end.

        Reigns’ voice from earlier rings in his mind. _“That ain’t the right kind of thinking and you know it, so quit it.”_

        Seth even has it in himself to chuckle, nodding to no one, nodding to psych himself up. He doesn’t have much time, but he has to do this right. He knows what to do, he knows what he _can_ do, and he has to do it, he just has to. He takes several deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, taking all of the panic, and pushing it back out of his focus. He doesn’t have time to be nervous, doesn’t have the time to panic, and if there’s one thing he doesn’t want these assholes to see, it’s weakness. So he tries as valiantly as he can to push it away, and put his confidence, his _trust_ in himself as well as his teammates. He double checks to make sure that he has everything required of him and nothing that isn’t, making sure that he walks into that building with the best chance that he has. He grabs the suitcase, hefty with it’s cargo inside, and places the keys to the car in the center console along with his phone. Hopefully everything will go smoothly enough and the kidnappers won’t take having a method of communication in his car as not abiding by their demands. He slides carefully out of the car—keeping it unlocked as he does—and his eyes quickly scan the roof of the building as well as the surrounding area as he walks. As far as his cursory look goes, he doesn’t see anything that should be of concern to him, but if he’s learned anything in all of his years of espionage, it’s that nothing is ever as it seems.

 

***

        This is awful and terrible. If there is one part of Espionage that Dean would never grow used to, never enjoy, is all the fucking waiting.

        He paces stiffly, only taking a few steps at a time before turning around on the balls of his feet and starting all over again. He’s staring intently at the little cube in his hands, flicking the switches and buttons harder than usual, the little device making clicking noises almost akin to a video game controller.

        “I have visual on Architect,” Roman says, relieved that Seth made it to the drop point in one piece. It’s not like he suspected anything was going to happen to him in the ten minutes since he last saw the younger man, but you never know when communication isn’t as readily available as you’re used to. Even with his high powered binoculars, Seth is still relatively small in his sight. Roman watches as his teammate approaches the building, barely breathing as does so. After a few terse seconds that feel like minutes to Roman, he watches as more movement happens inside the building. Finally, Seth steps forward and out of his sight. Roman is loathe to admit that the breath he finally lets out has more tremble in it than he’d like. “He’s in.”

        Dean stops in his tracks and glances up from fiddling. He stares at Roman, hunched over his rifle, his body coiled so tightly is must be painful. Dean swallows. “I hate this,” he says.

        Roman’s head turns, looking over at Dean, and in a rare moment, their eyes meet. The big guy’s lips are pulled tight, his brows upturned just slightly, and Dean watches as his jaw clenches as he swallows. “Me too,” he admits.

        To see Roman so visibly upset unsettles Dean more than he would like to admit, so he tears his eyes away, intentionally focusing on his cube as he starts clicking it again.

 

***

        Seth is met by one man, not even masked or disguised in any way and immediate alerts start to go off in Seth’s mind. He swallows. “I’m here for the exchange—”

        “We know what you’re here for,” the man says calmly. “I’m going to pat you down, if I find anything I feel that is amiss, you will be shot.”

        Seth swallows again. He knows that he doesn’t have anything on him that he shouldn’t, but honestly, the more he learns about the kidnappers, the more he seems to feel that it doesn’t matter that they’ve followed their instructions down to the letter.

        Well, besides having two Agents as long range backup, but that’s neither here nor there.

        The man does as he says, patting Seth down with probably more care and intention to find something wrong than a maximum security prison guard. The longer it takes the longer Seth’s worries start to arise again, but finally, the man seems to deem him alright, since he stands, and gruffly says. “This way.”

        Once again Seth is struck by how matter of fact this entire matter is seeming. Seth is taken through several rooms, each of which are filled with boxes and other kinds of shipping equipment, Seth makes a mental note to notice the name and logo on the side of the boxes for when he reports to Punk. If this shipping warehouse is a front for something, and these kidnappers are involved, then the name might be something that they can use to dig up information on them. However, it also doesn’t bode well with Seth’s rising suspicions that they really don’t intend for him or the Senator Anderson to leave this place. He swallows roughly and tries not to think about it that closely.

        Finally, the man stops in front of a mostly empty room and gestures that Seth should enter before him, and the half blonde takes a small breath and complies, wanting to appear compliant as to not jeopardize his chances despite how much he does _not_ like the idea of an armed man behind him.

        Returning his attention to the room beyond, the first thing Seth notices is how small it is, as well as how empty it is, and the fact that the only window his whole team had seen, is in it. A sliver of hope rises in the Agent’s chest. That sliver of hope falls however, when it’s revealed that there are two more kidnappers in the room. One stands at the side of Senator Cecil Anderson, who is bound and gagged to a chair, the other—who is the tallest out of all of them from what Seth can see—is standing in front of a table, and Seth also takes notice that both of them have a gun.

        The Architect takes a deep breath, and meets the eyes of Senator Anderson, whose expression is one of sheer terror. All of the pallor is gone from his face, cold sweat dripping down his forehead as he stares at the half blonde man. Seth tries with all his might to convey to the Senator with his eyes that he’s going to do his damndest to get them both out of there, and tries to make it look as believable as possible.

        “I have the money,” Seth says, the briefcase held tightly in hand. It’s his only lifeguard, his bargaining chip, and he’s loathe to let it go. “Half a million, unmarked, non sequential bills of varying notes, just as requested.”

        The taller kidnapper steps forward, raising his gun towards Seth. Seth’s jaw clenches, but he stares the man down, his grip on the briefcase tightening. “Step to the table, and set the case down and put your hands up.”

        Seth does as instructed, keeping his eyes firmly planted on the man as he steps forward, carefully placing the money on the table and lifting his hands and placing them behind his head. He shifts his fingers, displaying a ‘three’ as discreetly as he can, hoping that by some miracle, Ambrose and/or Reigns will be able to see it and take it for what it is. The other kidnapper slowly shifts to the other side of Anderson, the gun still poised at point blank range against his skull. “Count it.”

        The man who escorted Seth inside raises his pistol and aims it at the Agent as the tallest man goes to count the money. Seth tried desperately hard not smile, clenching his jaw to prevent it. With the one occupied with counting the money, that leaves one less person with a gun up and focused. It also gives time for Ambrose and Reigns to line up their shots. With only one window it’s a long shot, and Seth hopes that at least they might be able to help even the odds.

 

***

        Dean leans over his rifle next to Roman, shifting ever so slightly so he has a better vantage point for the one window visible to them. “I’m gonna kill every motherfucker in there,” he grumbles under his breath.

        Roman glances at him out of the corner of his eyes. “You think that’s wise?”

        “Nobody messes with us and gets away with it.”

        Roman honestly can’t tell whether or not Dean means the WWE, or the Shield themselves.

        He’d like to think its the latter.

 

***

        For long minutes the tall man counts, carefully separating each bill. No shot comes. The longer time passes, the more Seth can feel himself start to sweat, start to worry. Why hasn’t anyone taken a shot yet? What are they waiting for? Maybe with guns pointed at both he and the Senator, neither of his teammates want to risk a shot? Or maybe they can’t? He knows they don’t have very clear visibility, but honestly, he’s going to run out of time eventually, and he’s more and more certain that they aren’t going to let him out of here alive. If he doesn’t do or say something to open up a shot, he’s as good as dead anyway. He has to _do_ something.

        The man pointing the gun at Anderson seems to be the leader of the group, more aggressive and easier to anger, maybe him? However, if he says or does the wrong thing, that very anger could end up being his downfall.

        Seth glances to the man pointing the gun at his own head. He’s not close enough to try for a gun, but he seems more poised, more calm, but more willing to just go along with what the other two tell him.

        He’s got an idea. It’s risky, but he has to try.

        He looks back at the gunman with Anderson. “I assure you gentlemen, this isn’t really necessary. There is nothing for you to worry about, the money is all present and—” he doesn’t get to finish his sentence when the man swings and points his gun at Seth, and the third attacker subsequently shifts his aim to the Senator. It clicks with Seth, they’re keeping a gun on every man at all times, just in case anything funny happens.

        “I would suggest you shut your mouth,” The ornery man growls. “We’re going to make sure that you followed—”

        Seth doesn’t get to hear the rest of the sentence, because suddenly, a blur of motion happens all at once. In a shower of glass, the window breaks, and the second gunman falls to the ground. Seth turns, and without thinking, leaps towards the kidnapper at his side, but unfortunately, he’s too late to stop the gunshot entirely. He plows into the side of the man as he shoots, and they both fall to the ground. Thankfully, with quick hands and few well aimed strikes, Seth disarms the man and incapacitates him, leaping up and ready to shoot the last remaining kidnapper. He’s stunned however, that the man is slumped over the briefcase and the money, bleeding out from a wound in his chest.

        Again, working through adrenaline and instinct, Seth whips around to the Anderson, and his eyes widen. A deep, ugly red has seeped through the front of his formerly pristine white dress shirt, and panic suffuses Seth’s veins. He crawls towards the man, keeping low just in case. He reaches the man, who’s staring at him with wide, slightly glazed eyes. Seth glances back towards the kidnapper he incapacitated. He’s passed out, but he isn’t dead, and he’s going to wake up eventually. Seth heaves a small sigh. “Please close your eyes, Mr. Anderson, I need to take care of something,” he says, holding the gaze of the other man. It takes a few moments, but the man’s eyes shutter closed.

        Seth quickly creeps over to the last man and takes aim at his temple, pushing everything that doesn’t pertain to the Senator’s and his own safety inside a little box in the back of his brain. With a steady hand, Seth shoots, thankful for the silencer. After a few terse moments, he reaches and touches the man’s neck, waiting for a pulse that thankfully does not come. With a sigh, Seth stands, and as quickly as he can, does the same to the other kidnappers, checking for pulses he does not find.

        With that done, he returns to Anderson, reaching up and untying the gag in his mouth as gently as he can. Once it’s removed, he realizes that the man is panting weakly, his breath wheezing out of him in pain. Seth unties his hands as well, trying to force his brain to focus and not reach the panic that it had before. He continues to shove things into that little box, quick mechanic movements releasing Anderson from his bonds. The man’s white hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes are only becoming more glassy as time goes on. Seth swears underneath his breath, bringing himself to look at the man’s wound. From what he can see, he’s been shot in his lower abdomen. He looks back up at the Senator. “Hey, Mr. Anderson, stay with me, I’m going to talk to you, and we’re gonna get you out of here alright, ok?” The man doesn’t speak, but his eyes clear just a little bit, and Seth takes it as a good sign. “I’m going to have to open your shirt and see if I can stop the bleeding, but if you can raise your arms above your head, that might help too, alright?”

        The man finally speaks in harsh gasps, and Seth swallows at how harsh and pain filled it sounds. “Why—haven’t you—called—an ambulance?”

        Seth grimaces and reaches for the buttons on the man’s shirt, trying not to focus on how much his hands are trembling. “The kidnappers instructed me not to bring in a phone or anything that could be used to contact anyone.” He doesn’t elaborate further as he opens the shirt, wincing as the blood sticks a little. He doesn’t want to mention the fact that if he had brought a phone, neither of them would probably be alive at this point.

        As a WWE Agent, Seth has been trained in first aid as well as what to do during medical emergencies, but this is something entirely different. Gunshot wounds to the torso are so much more difficult. You can't tourniquet the wound, and if you can’t staunch the blood flow quickly enough or get the wounded person advanced medical attention, there’s a good chance they could die. Seth glances back up at Anderson. He doesn’t want to alarm the man and make anything worse, so he tries to calm his breathing as much as he can.

        The wound is bright and angry, blood seeping out of it. It doesn’t make Seth nauseated—he’s too desensitized for that—but he moves suddenly, knowing he doesn’t have much time. He strips off his shirt and reaches to rip it into strips, ready to press and pack it into the wound as well as he can. It’s not the cleanest thing, but it’s better than the gag.

        “I’m very sorry, Sir, but this is going to hurt,” he half murmurs, “Just try to keep breathing.”

        Unfortunately, as much as Seth wants to be gentle and well... _considerate_ of the Senator’s wound, this isn’t the time nor the place for it. He has to at least get the bleeding to slow down, giving them more time to call for an emergency evac. So he presses the strips of his shirt to the wound, trying to apply enough pressure to staunch the blood flow of the injury, but not hard enough to do any more damage to the man. A ragged gasp and a series of pants is what he gets in return for his efforts, and Seth’s eyes flicker back up to Anderson. His eyes are foggy, and his face has nearly gone white as a sheet. Seth’s eyes widen as he watches the man start to sway, his eyes going even more glassy. “Hey, hey, no, no no!” Seth swears as the politician slumps forward, losing consciousness.  With the man passed out, Seth has no idea how to gauge whether or not he’s doing more harm than good while stopping the blood flow. “Shit,” he swears under his breath again. They need to get the fuck out of here.

 

        ‘Dragging’ and ‘gentle’ probably shouldn’t be used in the same context, but unfortunately, it’s where Seth’s at at this point. Trying to drag a fully grown man with a gunshot wound to the stomach is not an easy task in and of itself, but to do it gently, while the man is passed out? It’s almost impossible. Seth is hardly aware of the fact that he’s muttering a mantra of, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” underneath his breath as he half drags half carries the man towards the SUV. He’s still got the stolen pistol in one hand just in case there any backup decides to show up, but once he’s outside, he can somehow _feel_ that they’re all alone.

        Thankfully, the SUV is still unlocked and he yanks open the trunk door. Miraculously it’s empty, and as carefully as he can, Seth drapes Anderson across the floor. With that done, he quicky circles the car, yanks open one of the back doors, and sets to folding the seats down so that he can have enough room to crawl into the back with the wounded man. He does so, reaching into the center console and retrieving his phone, pressing the emergency call sequence and closing each of the vehicle’s open doors and locking them. While the phone rings, he leans over the Senator, who is looking worse for wear the more time passes. Seth curses again, checking the man’s vitals when the line finally goes through. He doesn’t even give the person on the other line a chance to say anything before he speaks. “This is Agent Rollins of Sierra, Hotel, India, Echo, Lima, Delta. I am in urgent need of Emergency Evacuation. The threat has been neutralized but Senator Anderson is down and in need of major medical attention as soon as possible, I repeat, Senator Anderson is _down_.” Seth tries valiantly to keep the panic from his voice, pushing it back, trying to shove it together with the rest of his emotions so he can get through this. He pins the phone into the crook of his shoulder so that he has both hands free. He presses one onto the wound and the other tries valiantly to maintain track of the man’s weak pulse.

        “Roger that Agent Rollins. Emergency Medical and Evacuation protocols have been set into motion. Do you require anything else, over?” The voice on the other line responds.

        Seth glances at the Senator’s face. “Please hurry.”

 

***

        Roman barely has enough time to stop the car before Dean is practically barreling out of it. “The car is still here!” the slighter man exclaims, shoving the door of their own car open.

        “Fringe, be careful!” Roman hisses, throwing the car into park as quickly as he can so he can follow after his teammate. Retrieving his gun from his holster, Roman raises it, quickly checking around the perimeter with his eyes for anyone who could be waiting for them. Thankfully, he doesn’t see anyone in the immediate vicinity. He’d love to do a more thorough search around before jumping into action, but apparently, Dean has decided to forego all pretense of stealth. Both of them approach the car, their guns raised, ready to shoot if needed.

        They flank the car, and Roman watched the grip on Dean's pistol tighten. "There's someone inside," he whispers. Roman sees it now, just slightly, the dark surroundings making it rather hard to make out. There _is_ movement in the back of the SUV, and he prays that the worst hasn't happened.

        "What do we do?" Roman asks softly.

        Dean seems to think for a moment, his brows pulled low over his eyes. Roman watched him open his mouth, but can't stop him in time before he speaks. "Sierra, Hotel, India, Echo, Lima, Delta!!" He exclaims clearly and quickly in the direction of the door. Luckily, no gunshots immediately go off through the back window, which means whoever is inside either doesn't have a gun, or knows that the windows are bulletproof.

        Roman barely hears the response. "Help!"

        Again, before Roman has time to respond, Dean is stepping forward, ripping a key from his pocket and jamming it into the lock. Roman keeps his gun raised and at the ready in case there's a need for him to shoot. Hopefully Seth isn't being held hostage in there.

  
  
        It's actually not as bad as he thinks it's going to be, and ultimately worse at the same time. The first thing he sees when Dean flings the trunk door open is two bodies and a whole lot of red. His heart leaps into his throat so quickly it feels like he can’t even gasp as he takes everything in. Seth is currently shirtless, his hands stained red as he pumps them against the chest of an older man who even through the blood and his ashen complexion Roman can recognize as Senator Anderson. Seth isn’t even looking up at his teammates, instead leaning over and pressing his mouth against the Senator’s in CPR. His hair has fallen out of its usual ponytail and has undoubtedly dragged through the elder man’s bloodied gut as Seth leans over and presses his ear against his chest. Seth swears and begins the process all over again, his eyes wide as he stares intently down at the man he’s so obviously trying to save.

        Dean apparently finds his words first. “What happened?”

        Seth tries breathing into the man’s mouth again before answering. He’s out of breath himself, and even though he valiantly tries to keep his voice calm, Roman can hear the fear and the panic starting to eek out. “I couldn’t stop the third shooter in time. I just—I knocked him down but Mr. Anderson got shot anyways….I tried—tried to stop the blood flow but he passed out and so I dragged him here ‘cause it’s the safest place but then he stopped breathing and—” He stops in the middle of his own little verbal deluge to lean over and breathe into the man’s mouth a third time.

        Roman swallows and finally speaks. “You called for an Evac?”

        Seth’s eyes snap to his and Roman absolutely hates it for more reasons than the obvious. Seth’s got blood smeared on one of his cheeks, and the hair that isn’t dangling freely is plastered to his temples with sweat. He’s still pumping the man’s chest as he stares Roman down, his normally warm eyes nearly black in anger amongst the swirl of other emotions no doubtedly running through them. “Of course I did, I’m not a fucking idiot!” He spits out, before taking one hand and placing it under the Senator’s nose in an attempt to maybe feel what he can’t hear in the man’s chest.

        Roman tries not to take the snarling answer personally. “Are _you_ hurt?” He asks instead, watching the continuous cycle of Seth pressing rhythmically on the Anderson’s chest before breathing into his mouth. The longer it keeps happening, the more desperate Seth seems to become, and the harder it’s becoming for Roman to watch.

        “I’m fine.” Seth replies sharply, flicking his head so that some of his hair moves out of his eyes. Unfortunately for him, it falls right back.

        “Is everyone else dead?” Dean asks, holstering his pistol, but not really making any sudden moves towards Seth. It feels a little surreal, Roman thinks, standing almost idly by, watching his teammate perform desperate CPR out of the back of an SUV while they wait for Emergency personnel.

        “Yes, you hit your marks and I took care of the other one,” Seth replies shortly, understandably distracted. “I don’t know if there’s anyone else stationed around, but I figure there isn’t otherwise they would have made themselves known by now.” Despite the apparent threat being neutralized, Roman isn’t keen on taking any chances right now, so he keeps his grip on his gun tight, ready at any moment to take down anyone who might come along and want to start something they shouldn’t.

        Dean somehow has it in him in this situation to chuckle. “Told you I don’t miss.”

        Seth stumbles in his motions just for a second or two, but it’s long enough for him to look up at Dean—who is leaning against the bumper of the SUV now—crack a smile—a quick, fragile thing—before going back to work.

        Roman or Dean should probably offer to take over with the CPR, but unfortunately, it looks as though their half blonde teammate’s first aid is the only thing keeping the Senator alive at this point, and the passing over of the CPR probably wouldn’t be strategically smart. Roman knows this, but it doesn’t make watching and listening to Seth desperately continue it go any easier on him. Dean speaks again. “If we get Anderson out of here—”

        “ _When_ —” Seth corrects sharply, resolutely not taking his eyes off of the man below him. “ _When_ we get him out of here…”

        Dean hesitates only a moment. “Ok, right.” He clears his throat. “ _When_ we get Anderson out of here, we’re going to report to Punk, then we’re going the fuck home and finishing our goddamn Thanksgiving dinner.”

        “If we still have the appetite for it….” Roman says softly, eyeing Dean and throwing a quick poignant glance at Seth who is...you know... _covered in blood?_

        Dean however, seems unperturbed. “I ain’t letting that food go to waste. I was promised a fucking Thanksgiving dinner, and I’m not gonna let some assholes ruin it any more than they already have.”

        In between labored breaths, Seth wheezes softly, another smile cracking his lips. This one however, is a little more amazed. “You’re unbelievable.”

        It’s Dean’s turn to crack a smile now. He half shrugs. “Yeah, but you knew that.”

        Seth actually scoffs through his nose and suddenly it hits Roman what Dean is trying to do.

        He’s trying to keep Seth calm. He’s trying to make their teammate feel better and distract him enough so that he doesn’t fall into more of a panic. Roman glances at the auburn haired man, who offers a look back that the Big Guy can’t quite read before it’s gone and refocused back on their teammate. There isn’t much physically that they can do for either Seth or the Senator besides be here in case they need protection, so really, what they can be is moral and emotional support, and Roman swallows at that. That is…definitely not his strong suit.

        The wail of a siren suddenly blares through the night air, and all three of the Agents’ heads snap up. All at once, they become surrounded, an ambulance as well as several nondescript vehicles pull up around them, and even though Roman knows that this is the extraction, he can’t suppress his instincts, and he raises his gun at the unexpected approach. Apparently, Dean is the same, since he only slowly lowers his guns as two EMT’s come barrelling out of the ambulance towards them. Personnel from the other vehicles start to exit, an entire team heading straight for the building behind them, not even bothering giving the Shield a glance.

        Roman holsters his gun finally, but his guard does not lower, especially when Seth starts to shout behind him. “No—He’s barely breathing! If I stop now he’s going to—”

        Despite Seth’s shouting, the Paramedic who speaks to him keeps their voice calm. “Sir, we need you to move away, we have a ventilator and we are going to do everything within our power to make sure that Senator Anderson is going to pull through.”

        Seth looks up desperately, his hands still pressed to Anderson’s chest. “He’s lost so much blood, I couldn’t, I couldn’t stop the shot I—”

        Another EMT approaches Seth. “Sir, please take a few deep breaths for us, you’re going into shock and we need you to stay calm. Now can you tell me if _you’re_ injured in any way?”

        Roman swears underneath his breath. He never really got a clear answer from Seth as to whether or not he was actually hurt. Seth is exactly the kind of person who would play down his own pain as if it were just a nuisance just so that he can follow through with what he's doing. What kind of shitty teammate doesn’t even—

        Roman’s thoughts are interrupted by two other Paramedics pushing past him, rolling a wheeled stretcher as well as a backboard and several other instruments that the Samoan doesn’t want to go into too much detail thinking about.

        “I’m _fine_ —you just—Mr. Anderson, I’ve been doing CPR—his breathing hasn’t gotten any better—” Seth babbles, trying to explain.

        “It’s alright, Sir.” The first EMT says, scooting seamlessly out of the way of the other paramedics as they prepare to take Anderson. “We just need you to move away so that we can take care of Mr. Anderson. We’re going to assess you to make sure that you—”

        “No!” Seth exclaims, “I need to—”

        “ _Rollins_!” Dean shouts back over everyone, his voice loud in a way Roman really hasn’t heard before. Seth looks up at Dean, his eyes wide and his face pale as he stares, halfway snapped out of his stupor. “Let him go.”

        Roman watches Seth swallow, then look down at Senator Anderson, before shakily pulling his hands away and scooting back to let the paramedics have room.

        As soon as Seth is out of the way, the EMT’s descend upon Anderson, spouting medical terms that Roman couldn’t hope to understand. They get the politician on the backboard and carefully lift him out of the back of the SUV, hefting him onto the stretcher and wheeling him away.

        Seth, who was pressed against the driver’s seat of the SUV, suddenly scrambles out, practically running after the Paramedics, stumbling slightly over his feet in his attempts to go after them.

        The bright chaotic lights of the ambulance throw Seth into a stark relief, still shirtless and panting, hair frazzled, hands and body smeared in blood. Existing stagnant in the midst of swarming medical personnel and the extraction team, he looks almost lost, his eyes wide and searching.

        It must be what draws Roman to him, the want to remove that lost look from his face, to anchor him to the present, to bring him back to both Roman and Dean. The Samoan reaches without thinking, and touches the back of Seth’s head to get his attention, and when the younger man actually startles a bit, Roman feels a twinge in his chest. Seth turns and looks up at him and their eyes meet, the half blonde’s flicking around like he’s trying to search Roman’s for answers, and Roman really can’t take it. He looks away, but his hand moves and he grips the back of Seth’s neck right above his shoulders, squeezing in what he hopes to be a comforting manner. They exist with one another in that moment, but for only that moment. Suddenly, in a burst of movement, the evacuation personnel approach them, and start to corral and rush them towards Dean and an awaiting escort vehicle. Seth is tense and jerking in his movements, and an instinct rises up in Roman when one of the Evac team members tries to reach for Seth to hurry him along. With his hand still on the younger man’s neck, Roman pulls him in closer, and gives the team member a look that immediately puts them off. “C’mon,” he murmurs, squeezing Seth’s neck again.

        It seems to bring the half blonde back to himself at least a little bit, since they make it to the car, barely having enough time to slip into it before it starts to move. Seth ends up in between Roman and Dean, and the latter’s eyes zero in on Roman’s hand, which is still resting on the back of Seth’s neck. Roman could probably pull it away, it probably isn’t necessary any longer to keep it there, but something in him begs to differ, so he keeps it there. Dean’s eyes meet his over Seth’s head for just a moment, but he doesn’t say anything, just turns his head away  to look out the window at the city passing them by.

        The farther they drive, the further the ambulance with it’s chaotic lights and it’s blaring siren starts to fade, yet Roman’s hand still grips the back of Seth’s neck. He should probably pull it away. He keeps telling himself that, but then he glances down at Seth, who is staring at the floor of the car, still looking lost, and his hand just won’t budge.

 _At least until we get back to headquarters_.

 

***

        Seth’s awareness only starts to really come back to him when he’s forced under the spray of a shower back at headquarters, the water shocking in temperature. He sputters and steps back, squeezing his eyes shut and pushing his hair out of his face. He whips his head around and rapidly blinks his eyes to the offender who shoved him under the freezing spray. Ambrose is standing there, still in his gear, arms crossed over his chest and a frown pulling at his mouth. Reigns is behind him, arms _not_ crossed over his chest, and an emotion that Seth can’t rightfully place in his current state of mind dominating his features. Seth opens his mouth to speak, but Ambrose beats him to it. “Wash up.”

        Seth blinks. “What?” It’s only when he speaks that he realizes how rough it sounds. He swallows but doesn’t try again.

        Reigns however, does reply. “You’re still…bloody,” he hesitates. “You should wash up before we report to Punk.”

        Seth brings his hands into his line of vision and watches the water run down his forearms, painting his skin rust in it’s wake. He blinks at it, trying to focus. “Right.” He moves to change the temperature of the water, so it doesn’t actually shock his system more than it actually has.

        “You ok by yourself?” Ambrose asks, and it makes Seth frown, scrubbing his palms together, not bothering with any soap just yet.

        “I’ll be fine.”

        Neither of his teammates say anything for long moments, and Seth valiantly tries to ignore the stares that he knows are being sent his way. “Alright, we’ll be in the locker room.” Ambrose says, and Seth listens to the echoing his boots make as he walks away. Unfortunately, he only hears the one set of footsteps. He glances up from underneath the wet curtain of his hair to where Reigns is still standing, that indeterminable look still on his face. Seth watches the bigger man open his mouth, but Seth doesn’t get to know what he was going to say, since Ambrose peeks his head into the doorway of the showers. “C’mon.”

        Reigns seems to snap out of it, and his mouth clicks shut. He gives Seth one last look, before retreating out after Ambrose. Seth tries to refocus on the task at hand—literally—but he finds it hard, his brain still trying to parse through what just happened. The small rational part of his brain is telling him that he’s experiencing some form of emotional shock, but the other part of his brain that’s _actually_ experiencing the shock doesn’t quite seem to get the message, and continues to race and be quite foggy at the same time. It’s fairly annoying. Seth grunts and reaches to wrestle off his pants. They’re a write off anyway with how dirty and smeared in blood they are. Once they’re off and sitting in a lump on the floor, Seth reaches for soap, hoping that wiping away the physical evidence of what he’s been through will help his brain calm down from what he thinks it still his, ‘flight or fight’ response.

        He scrubs his hands and forearms harshly with the soap, watching idly as the rust color slowly starts to fade away in the swirl of the water. The motions, along with the heat of the water, flush his skin almost red. He picks at the blood underneath his fingernails and for one moment is reminded of Lady Macbeth, and it causes a derisive laugh to bubble out of his mouth. He rolls his eyes at himself, talk about being fucking dramatic.

        He doesn’t quite feel clean—the cheap soap not doing much for him—but he supposes he can’t stay in here forever, especially with his teammates, who Seth is sure are waiting all on him. With a deep breath, the half blonde pushes his hair out of his face, exhales and flips off the spray.

        Without fanfare, he wraps a scratchy white towel around his waist, and pads towards the locker room, trying not to let his eyes unfocus as he stares at the tiles below his feet. He frowns. _I’m not looking forward to the fucking meeting_.

        Taking another deep breath, Seth steps into the locker room, resolutely trying to ignore the obvious stares from his teammates as he enters. He makes a beeline for his locker, and makes a frustrated huff when it takes him more than one time to get the combination right, his hands still not quite feeling his own yet. When the lock finally clicks open, he throws open the door, the sudden deep-seated urge to wear his own clothes overtaking him. More quick movements and unnerving silence from both Reigns and Ambrose, and Seth is more or less dressed. He doesn’t have a hair-tie for his hair, and he exhales sharply through his nose, running his hands through it several times until most of it stays out of his face. With one more deep breath and with as little fanfare as he can possibly manage, he pushes his locker shut and turns around to face his teammates.

        Both of them are sitting on a bench, dressed in their street clothes as well. Seth catches Reigns’ eyes flicking away, and he would probably account for that being the norm were it not for the intense white hot feeling of eyes on him since he entered the room. Ambrose however, seems to have no reservations about letting Seth know that he’s been watching him. His arms are still crossed over his chest, that little frown still pulling at his lips, like the only thing that’s changed at all since Seth saw him last is the fact that in a different location and he’s sitting down. “You good?” He asks.

        Seth’s smile and subsequent laugh are rather sardonic. “Whether I am or not doesn’t really matter, does it?” Reigns looks up at him from underneath his eyelashes, and Seth looks away because he really hates Reigns looking at him like that, like he’s someone to be pitied. This shit is part of their fucking job, it isn’t something that he should be fucking pitied over experiencing. If you can’t handle these aspects of the job you shouldn’t be in espionage in the first place. You gotta be able to compartmentalize and move onto the next mission, for the greater good. He needs to be able to take what’s happened, and apply it to the next missions, and make sure that it doesn’t happen again. Hell, it’s not like he was even the one who got injured in the first place, so there should be no problem. Seth knows this, he _knows this_ , but his brain apparently is taking the information that it already knows with a grain of salt, and is starting to race again, the events of the past several hours going through his brain somehow at hyper speed and in slow motion at the same time. He just really, really doesn’t want to be here any longer. He wants to go back to the apartment, and he wants to go the hell to sleep, so that his brain can work through whatever it’s problem is when he’s not conscious. The half blonde groans, rubbing his hands over his face. “Can we just—” He starts, then swallows when his voice comes out a little more timid and shaking than he intended it to. “Can we just go do the meeting please?” He tries again, pressing his palms into his closed eyes.

        A few seconds of hesitant silence prelude to the answer. “Sure, let’s go.”

        Reigns was the one who spoke, and when Seth removes his hands from his eyes, watching the color of the world shift back to it’s correct hues—was he really pushing his hands that harshly into his eyes?—he sees that both of his teammates have stood up, and Ambrose has finally uncrossed his arms. A cursory glance reveals that the frown is not gone, but Seth will take what he can get at this point. Seth turns on his heel, and steps quickly out of the locker room, not particularly interested if his teammates are following him at this point. It turns out that they are, of course, and Seth can’t decide whether or not it’s a good thing.

        Neither Reigns nor Ambrose try to talk to him as they walk, and honestly Seth calls it a blessing. The protocol they have to go through to be able to go up to the upper floors to Punk’s office are all a blur, Seth especially feeling like he’s going through the motions, almost as though he’s watching his body do things from far away. Thankfully, he comes back to himself again when they reach that frosted glass door with ‘CM PUNK’ etched into it. With a breath, Seth reaches up, and knocks weakly on the door.

        Within seconds, said door practically swings open, and there is their mentor, standing directly on the other side. Without words, he steps forward and pulls Seth’s forehead to briefly touch his own. “Thank _fuck_ ,” He finally says, and some of the stress and panic in Seth melts away just a little bit. “They wouldn’t let me know what happened to you, only that you called for an Evac.”  When Punk finally pulls back, he looks Seth in the eye, and the smile falls a bit, along with Seth’s stomach. “The Senator?” Punk starts to ask, and Seth interrupts him.

        “I don’t know,” he says harshly. “They took him away.”

        Punk is silent for long moment, and Seth can practically feel the stare that the older man bores into him. Finally he speaks. “Take him home.”

        Seth’s head practically snaps up. He actually manages to ask, “what?” but just barely. Punk eyes both Reigns and Ambrose behind him, and the half blonde partway glances back before refocusing on Punk. “But what about the—”

        Punk interrupts him now. “The report can wait until we know the condition of Senator Anderson. It would do us no good until then.”

        “But—” Seth tries again.

        The elder man puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a meaningful look. “It can wait Seth, I promise.”

        Despite the fact that it feels like he’s being babied, being sent home because Punk somehow has gathered that he currently does not have the emotional capacity to do this right now, some of the weight and tightness in Seth’s chest lifts and he takes a deep breath. “Thank you,” he replies weakly.

        Punk pats his shoulder and nods. “We’ll contact you if you need anything else, alright?” He says, addressing all three of them now. Seth can’t tell if the smile he offers them is as genuine as Punk wants it to be. “Now head on home, there’s still a little bit of Thanksgiving left you can celebrate.”

        “You did call us in the middle of dinner after all,” Ambrose finally speaks.

        Punk snorts and shrugs as if to say, ‘What’re you gonna do?’ “Now get going.”

        “Thank you,” Seth says again, before he consciously turns and starts walking away from Punk’s office.

        He misses the intentional look Punk gives Reigns and Ambrose before they follow after him.

 

        Finally, when they’re all checked out of the building, they slowly approach their escort vehicle, another small sedan their going to have to squish into. Somehow, on their way out, Seth had wound up between Ambrose and Reigns. Ambrose slides into the car first, probably just as eager to go home as any of them. Neither of his teammates have really said a word other than what was required of them, and Seth feels something roiling up in the pit of his stomach as he rather reluctantly slides in between Reigns and Ambrose, since it would be rather rude and uncomfortable to force a big guy like Reigns to sit in the middle seat.

        The closer and closer they get to home, the more and more the pit of Seth’s stomach rolls and flutters. The close proximity doesn’t help either, and the silence that was at first uncomfortable is quite quickly becoming all consuming, and finally it boils over and out of Seth’s mouth comes, “I’m thankful I’m alive.”

        If he thought the silence before he spoke was bad, it’s nothing compared to the several seconds of choking silence that follows his unexpected announcement.

        Thankfully, Reigns throws him a lifeline. “Me too.” He doesn’t elaborate whether or not he means he’s thankful that _he’s_ alive, or that _Seth’s_ alive, but Seth leaves it alone, not daring to even ask.

        After a few seconds, Seth glances at Ambrose, who’s still frowning, and pointedly not looking at neither he nor Reigns, that is, until Reigns reaches behind and around Seth to flick Ambrose harshly on the ear. It makes the tawny haired man jerk and snap his head around, his frown more annoyed and disgruntled than whatever emotion was causing it before. “Ow!—What?” Reigns pointedly clears his throat and Ambrose’s frown only deepens. His eyes flick back and forth between both Seth and Reigns, “I told you, none of that ‘What We’re Thankful For’ shi— _Ow_!” His little tirade is interrupted by Reigns flicking him harder on the ear, and Ambrose tries to swat away the hand to no avail. It actually causes a weak laugh to fall out of Seth, the sudden normalcy of it all. The constant bickering between he and Ambrose with Reigns’ parental-like interventions weren’t things he thought he’d ever miss until it was replaced with only silence. Ambrose stops trying to hit Reigns back, his attention returning to Seth. He swallows. “Fine geez—whatever, me too.” He says quickly, sharply looking away after he says it, eyes valiantly trained on the window and the outside world beyond it.

        Reigns must deem it good enough, since he doesn’t flick Ambrose again, and the silence that falls between them is so much less oppressive, so much less all encompassing and Seth finally feels like he can breathe a little. “Thank you,” he says, because he can’t recall whether or not he’s actually thanked his teammates for coming through for him. “For everything.”

        “You’re welcome,” Reigns replies, and leaves it at that.

        “It’s our job,” Ambrose says bluntly. Seth almost expects Reigns to reach over and flick the paler man’s ear again, but he doesn’t really get the chance, because Ambrose speaks again. “But I wasn’t about to let those mother fuckers kill you, so you’re welcome I guess.”

        Seth again finds a laugh coming out of him, even the slightest bit stronger than the last. “You’re unbelievable,” he repeats, because Ambrose really is.

        And Seth can see in the reflection of the window that Ambrose is looking at him, and the frown is finally gone.

        “Yeah, but you knew that.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s becoming increasingly apparent that I am subconsciously trying to one up myself and make each chapter longer than the last and frankly I don’t appreciate my brain trying to play me for a fool like that.
> 
> P.S. HAPPY WRESTLEMANIA EVERYONE!!!!!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this chapter being a day late! I was very busy and there were some things I wanted to hash out and it took a little bit more time than I originally thought it would. Even now I'm not sure how I feel about the end result, but we shall see!

***

        Two days, it takes two entire days for any members of the Shield to hear a single thing from head quarters. Forty eight hours of Roman watching Seth live inside himself, thinking God knows what and only talking to Dean and him out of necessity.

        When they had first arrived home, Seth had practically made a beeline to his room, saying a quick, "I'm going to bed," before shutting himself away. Roman honestly hadn't blamed him then. Being alone with three gunman intent on killing you for a single misstep without any way to back yourself up, then practically saving the life of a man he hardly knew would take a toll on anyone.

        Roman worries started when he had woken up to find Seth already in his running clothes, filling up his water bottle in the sink, his hair tied tightly back with a faraway look and bags underneath his eyes. Roman didn't act upon his worry then, didn't speak up, because really once again, he couldn't blame Seth. So he had simply wished Seth a good run, and let the man leave.

        The half blonde man had stayed out almost twice as long as normal, and Roman had busied himself by making breakfast and watching the news, just so his first ever text message or call to Seth wouldn't be to ask him whether or not he was ok and when he was coming back. Hearing Seth come bounding up the stairs and come in, panting and sweating up a storm just like normal assuaged Roman's worries, only slightly, and he asked Seth once again if he had a good run.

        Seth hadn't really answer vocally, just made a, "Mmmhm," noise with his mouth, but considering Roman hadn't heard a peep out of him since he had said, "I'm going to bed," the night previous, the big Samoan had counted that as progress.

        The progress was short lived however, since the more time passed, the more and more Seth seemed to fall into his head. More than once he had been either sitting in the living room or standing in the kitchen, and Roman or Dean had asked him a question and it had taken Seth a few moments or more to even acknowledge them. Asking, "What?" and then answering the question, like his brain had needed a few extra seconds to process it, since it was more than likely focused on something else.

        Dean unfortunately wasn't helping either. While Seth had turned introspective, Dean just seemed to grow more and more agitated as time went by. He kept his eyes on Seth, that tiny little frown just creasing the edges of his lips seemingly permanent. He didn’t even try to goad Seth with any teasing or attempts to argue just for the sake of making Seth mad. He just watched, that frown still on his face. “What the hell are they even waiting for?” Roman had heard him mumble the next night after the mission, balancing a plate of leftovers on his lap as he and Roman watched college football. It was like Dean wasn’t even aware that he had spoken, and Roman could have honestly interpreted what he had said as a comment on the game, where it not for the atmosphere of the apartment as a whole, and the fact that Roman was pretty sure Dean wasn’t paying all that much attention to the game in the first place.

        Roman hadn’t had the heart to answer Dean’s question, whether or not it was rhetorical, because Roman didn’t really even have an answer in the first place. He had no idea what headquarters was waiting for.

        And unfortunately, the cycle repeated. Seth being not all there, Dean being agitated but for some reason saying nothing, and Roman trying his hardest not to worry over every little thing. Who knew waiting could be so _exhausting_?

 

 _Finally_ , after forty eight hours of no contact, no nothing, unexpectedly, Roman gets a call. The big man stares at his phone for a few seconds, a little in disbelief, before sliding his thumb across the screen to answer. He clears his throat. "Hello?"

        Thankfully, it's a voice he recognizes. "Roman," Punk says. "There's been some developments."

        Roman swallows. "Took long enough," he tries to joke.

        "Tell me about it," Punk replies flatly.

        "And you called me?" Roman asks, still a little marveled by that fact.

        "You're the most level headed out of the three of you," Punk says matter-of-factly, and Roman tries not to think about how Dean would tease him about being, 'Mom,' if he had heard Punk say that. Just in case, Roman glances over his shoulder to make sure that the other man isn't present. Thankfully he's in the clear for teasing, for now at least.

        "So, what's going on?" Roman asks, shifting against the couch and switching his phone from one ear to the other.

        "Senator Anderson is awake."

        Roman can't physically keep himself from gasping. He cuts it off short however, in favor for hunching slightly over his phone, as if he's a conspirator in some secret. "So he's stable?"

        Punk hums in the affirmative. "For the most part," he explains. "He's been brought up to speed with as much information as we have to give him."  
Roman sighs and the tension eases a little. "I'm sure Seth will be glad to know."  
A few moments of silence pass between them, and the more it passes, the more it doesn't sit well in Roman's stomach. "That's actually really why I called, Roman," Punk finally says. "Mr. Anderson wants to see Seth."

        "See...Seth?" Roman asks carefully.

        "Well, he more asked if he could, and I quote, 'See the man who saved my life'." Punk answers, his tone sounding amused and maybe even a little, proud?

        Roman licks his lips and swallows before speaking. "And you wanted to tell me because—?"

        "Like I said, you're the most level headed out of the three of you," Punk replies. "And we all saw how Seth was acting after the fact. I don't know his condition now, so I didn't want to make anything worse than it already is....and Dean is well..."

        "Dean" Roman agrees. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. "Seth is....better?" He guesses, "He hasn't said much since we came home."

        "I thought so," Punk replies, and by his tone, Roman can just imagine him nodding his head along with his speech.

        "I think he'll be better knowing Anderson is alright."

        Punk hesitates again, and Roman doesn't like it just as much as the last hesitation. "Medical staff has strong suspicions that Mr. Anderson has been paralyzed from the waist down, and that he'll have to step down from office."

        A shock of ice runs through Roman's veins, physically causing goose bumps to prickle across his arms. He can immediately see the reason for Punk's hesitation and make the connections that Punk has made. He knows why he's the first one to be told this information and not Seth.

  
        Seth is going to blame himself for the Senator getting shot.

        "I see," Roman says softly, running his free hand over his mouth now. "So we're at a crossroads."

        "Stuck between a rock and a hard place," Punk confirms. "Anderson wants to see Seth, Seth shouldn't see Anderson, unless you think that Seth is going to be able to handle it."  
  
        Speak of the devil and he shall appear.  
  
        Roman literally bites his tongue to keep himself from swearing as he sees Seth round the corner from the hallway, not even seemingly aware that Roman is sitting on the couch as he walks into the kitchen. "I don't know," Roman finally says softly, keeping his eyes on Seth as he does. "I have to go."

        Punk's voice even sounds softer as he speaks. "Oh shit, is he there?"

        "Yeah," Roman affirms.

        Punk sighs. "You know better than I do about his mental situation—"

        Roman _really_ doesn't.  
  
        "—so whether he's told about this or not, let me know. We'll figure out a solution from there, alright?"

        "Yes sir," Roman responds out of reflex, and _does_ curse himself when he sees Seth's head perk up and turn in his direction. Punk unfortunately hangs up then, and Roman is stuck staring at Seth, who looks like he's only _just_ patiently waiting for him to get off the phone. Roman sighs mentally and pulls the phone away from his ear, and Seth perks up a little bit again, and Roman decides right then and there that he _has_ to tell him. If even just the implications of having some sort of news are getting him to react more than anything else has in the past two days, he can’t keep this from his teammate, he really can’t.

        The half blonde tries to act nonchalant, glancing away from Roman as he pretends to do something with aim in the kitchen. “So—” His voice actually cracks, and Roman hears him clear his throat and try again. Just goes to show how sparsely Seth has actually used his voice since they came home. “Was that news...or?” Said man asks tentatively.

        Roman does take a deep breath then. “Yeah, that was Punk.”

        Seth deflates a little, his hands resting on the counter top in front of the microwave. “He calling us in for the report?”

        “No,” Roman replies. “Senator Anderson wants to see you.”

        Seth’s head snaps up. “He’s alive?” He asks, his voice cracking, just slightly, and not from lack of use this time. Roman’s lips pull tight at the sound.

“Yeah.”  

        It takes a second, like Seth can't actually believe what he's hearing, but eventually, a disbelieving smile wide enough to show his teeth breaks across his face. A breathless chuckle comes out, and he grips the counter top to his side, as if he needs it to keep himself steady.

        Roman finds that he can't look away. To see such unbridled joy—however fragile it may be—on Seth's face is so refreshing that it only solidifies the fact that there was no way that he was going to keep this from his teammate. He watches, as Seth covers his mouth with his free hand, like he's embarrassed by his smile, and says, "I can't believe it."

        "Punk says he wants to see you, if you want to go."

        It takes a moment for him to answer, but Seth curls a loose piece of blonde hair behind his ear when he does speak. "So Punk called you?"

        Despite the fact that Seth hadn't put any emphasis on any words to allude to him being accusatory, Roman can hear the question for what it was. He's not one for lying, and honestly, Seth needs to know. "The Senator is hurt, badly." Roman tries to ignore the flinch Seth makes by pushing forward. "They don't know exactly to what extent, but he's alive and wants to see you. Punk called me because he thought I would have a better idea of how you would take the news."

        Seth is silent for a long moment, and suddenly, the space between them feels like a fucking chasm. The joyful look from earlier is all but gone, and Roman's chest feels a little tight for being both the one to give it to him, and then take it right away again. Seth takes a breath. "Did you only tell me because I heard you?"

        "No." The word comes out of Roman's mouth without his permission really, and even though it does, he knows it for the truth. "You deserved to know."

        The chasm shrinks ever so slightly and Seth sighs, finally releasing his grip from the counter. He stands at his full height and takes a deep breath, likely steeling himself. "So when are we going?"

        Roman doesn't stand, doesn't make any indication that they have to leave right away, like Seth seems to think that they do. It makes sense, though. Seth has always been one to take initiative. He's always at the beck and call to their bosses, already ready to drop everything and go do what is asked of him. This isn't that however, no matter how much Seth now seems to think so. Roman needs to rectify that. So he says, "Whenever you're ready."

        The answer seems to throw Seth off guard a tad, and he falls slightly in his stance, but he recovers it quickly. "I'm ready to go now," He says, and its blatantly obvious that he misunderstood Roman's meaning on purpose. The big guy ain't having any of that.

        He shakes his head.

        "No,Whenever you're _ready_ ." He corrects, giving Seth a meaningful look, one that says he sees what Seth is trying to do, and isn't having any of it. Seth looks away then, his mouth twisted. Whether it's from being caught in his blatant lie, or something else, Roman isn't sure, but he continues on. "Give yourself a moment to think, then decide."

        Seth shakes his head. "What do you think I've been doing this whole time?" It comes out of his mouth with hardly any more force than a whisper.

        "Then you just need to rip it off like a bandaid, get it over with."

        Both Roman and Seth's head perk up to the voice, and Roman turns his head to see Dean standing at the mouth of the hallway. He's got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, and for once, he's actually not snapping on a piece of gum.

        "And before you ask how much I've heard—pretty much everything, you guys haven't exactly been quiet," he adds, half shrugging.

        Neither Roman nor Seth say anything for a long moment before Seth runs a hand over his face and heaves a sigh. “Maybe you’re right.”

        Roman watches Dean blink at their teammate, like he thought Seth was going to fight him over his suggestion. He seems to recover from it quite quickly, since he responds with, “‘Course I am.” One of his hands comes out of his jeans and finds its way to his chin, where he scratches at his stubble. “Took you long enough to come to that conclusion.”

        And it’s actually _nice_ to see Seth roll his eyes at Dean. “Not about _everything_ , asshole.”

        “As far as you know,” Dean replies just as quickly.

        Seth ignores the dig. “I need to go. I need to see him.”

        Roman nips at his bottom lip before speaking. “We can go with you.”

        Dean makes a face. “Pass,” he replies almost instantly. “Hospitals ain’t my thing.”

        The Samoan rolls his eyes at Dean, then looks at Seth. “ _I’ll_ go with you,” He says, trying to put some sincerity into his voice. It’s difficult. “If you want,” he adds quickly, giving the decision over to Seth, where it should be.

        The younger man runs a hand through the loose pieces of his hair that are hanging in his face, and he lets out a trembling breath. Roman doesn’t necessarily understand why _this_ particular operation has affected Seth like it has, but they’re teammates, and if this is something that Seth thinks is going to help him, Roman really shouldn’t inhibit him, even if a voice in his head worries about Seth not being ready to handle seeing Anderson. It’s just that Seth has always been one to strive for the best, to be the best, and Roman knows that Seth is blaming himself for everything, even though it’s quite obvious to everyone else that what happened wasn’t Seth’s fault. If Roman could go with his roommate, to be there just in case Seth needs him to be, or to be a reminder that this isn’t Seth’s fault, then he will. However, if Seth doesn’t want him to go, he won’t. The ball is entirely in the half blonde’s court now. Nevertheless, it doesn’t stop Roman from praying that his teammate will ask for him to come along. “You don’t mind?” The younger man asks, and Roman just barely bites back his sigh of relief.

        “Not at all,” he insists.

 

***

        All things considered, Seth really thought that WWE was going to hole Senator Anderson up themselves, keep him as close to the company as possible just in case someone tried to take him again, but when he and Reigns are taken to a regular old hospital, something in Seth's stomach doesn't quite feel right. It hasn't felt right in the past couple of days, but as they step out of the car and approach the building, the uneasiness within him builds. It must have something to do with how injured the Senator is. If whatever's become of him is something that even WWE can't or doesn't feel the need to hide, then there's something up. He tries to keep a solid face as he approaches one of the receptionists in the waiting room, Reigns a silent presence behind him. He's almost glad for the big guy being there, even if it is just as moral support.

        The woman notices him and gives him a bright smile. "What can I do for you gentleman?" She asks.

        "Um—" Seth reflexively smiles and clears his throat. "I'm here to see Mr. Cecil Anderson," he says softly, so as to not draw attention.

        The woman blinks, seeming struck for a moment, then nods. "May I get your name sir, please?" She asks, turning her attention to the computer in front of her.

        "Seth Rollins," the half blonde replies. "And Roman Reigns," he adds quickly as an afterthought, half glancing over his shoulder at the Samoan.

        It takes a moment, but eventually the receptionist seems to find what she's looking for. Seth watches as her eyes flicker over her screen, and she nods to herself. "Ah, yes, here it is. Mr. Anderson has been expecting you," she replies, keeping her voice rather soft as well for what Seth suspects is the same reason he had. "We'll call for a nurse and they'll be able to lead you his room, if you don't mind waiting for a few minutes?"

        Seth swallows and nods. "Thank you," he says. He doesn't bother relaying any of the information to Reigns, since he practically knows the big guy was listening the whole time, and he goes to sit in a rather comfortable looking armchair. Reigns sits next to him, leaning back into the chair and remaining quiet as they wait.

        The waiting room is quite possibly one of the nicest Seth has ever been in. While he himself hasn't needed to go to hospitals very often—which in his career choice is really a blessing—he has been in his fair share of them. It feels almost more like a lounge than a waiting room, with nicely upholstered chairs, a large fireplace that may or may not have a real fire in it, large windows that let the sun in, and several nice coffee makers stationed around the room.

        After surveying the room, Seth leans forward, resting his forearms on his legs, and tries to relax. The fact that Senator Anderson asked to see Seth himself means that he isn't injured enough that he can't talk, right? So he's cognitive and aware, which for someone who's been injured and is higher up there in years is a good sign. Then again, Reigns had only said that Punk told him that Anderson wanted to see Seth, and that could have been anything. For all Seth knows, the Senator can hardly speak and is only in and out of consciousness enough to want to know what happened? Makes sense, since Seth was the only other person there who really knew what had happened, maybe Mr. Anderson wants to meet him to get the story straight? Maybe he wants Seth to explain what had happened to….well, potentially anyone, really. That should be easy enough, Seth has been running over practically everything that had happened with a mental fine toothed comb ever since everything had gone down and—

        “Seth.” Reigns’ voice actually catches him off guard and he jolts when he realizes that Reigns’ hand is also resting on his shoulder. He brusquely brushes it away out of reflex and immediately regrets it, even though the other man doesn’t seem offended and simply pulls it back.

        “Sorry,” Seth offers anyway, “Was just—”

        “In your head?” Reigns interrupts, and Seth swears he hears a tinge of exhaustion in his voice, and a little wave of guilt mixed with annoyance washes through Seth. He knows he’s been stuck in his head for the past two days, and that it probably hasn’t been all that fun for his teammates, but don’t they understand that this is important to him?

        “Sorry,” He offers again, this time a little less sincere than before. He doesn’t feel too bad about that fact.

        Reigns is quiet for a second, which isn’t unusual, but then he comments softly. “You were bouncing your leg and breathing pretty hard, I was making sure you were ok.”

        Alright, now Seth feels bad about it. “Thank you,” he replies rather weakly, not looking at his teammate. “I don’t know what’s been going on with me…” he admits softly, almost hoping that Reigns won’t hear him.

        “We don’t have to do this now if you’re not ready,” Reigns offers, but Seth almost immediately shakes his head.

        “I need the closure. Good or bad.”

        Thankfully, Seth doesn’t seem to get a choice now whether or not he wants to back out, since a nurse approaches the waiting room and quietly calls out, “Seth? and...Roman?”

        Seth should probably be more embarrassed about how quickly he jumps up—enough to make the nurse jerk back a bit and blink at him—but he’s elects to ignore it and answer after he clears his throat. “Yes—Yes, that’s me— _us_.”

        The nurse offers a smile to him, probably something she’s perfected as her time as a nurse, and she gestures towards the hall behind her.

        “Won’t you both follow me?” She asks politely, and both men keep an appropriate distance behind her as she carefully leads them down the hallway.

        It takes a few minutes, but eventually, the polite nurse leads them to an elevator, up several floors and down several hallways, to what seems to be a more secluded portion of the hospital. It makes sense in Seth’s mind, considering who Mr. Anderson is. The nurse doesn’t try to make small talk, seemingly aware of how tense Seth is, and said man mentally thanks her for her intuition.

        Eventually, they stop in front of a door. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check in with him to be sure he’s ready for visitors, do you mind?”

        “Not at all,” Reigns replies before Seth gets a chance to, and Seth is actually a little embarrassed by the fact that he hardly even remembered that the big guy was with him in the first place.

        She nods at them with a smile before gently opening the door to Mr. Anderson’s room, and slipping inside. Seth resists the urge to pace, nervous energy causing his limbs to twitch and feel restless. He glances over at Roman several times out of the corner of his eye, but the big man seems just as calm as ever. Eventually, after a few minutes, the nurse pokes her head out of the door. “He’s ready for you,” she says softly. “But he’s still rather weak, so try not to overtax him, won’t you?”

        Seth swallows, nodding since he doesn’t trust his voice to say anything else. The nurse opens the door wider, moving out of their way, and with a deep breath, Seth steps in.

        It’s rather anticlimactic really as they cross the threshold into the room. It’s sparsely decorated, but still rather homey, despite the fact that smack dab in the center of the room lays a huge hospital bed where Mr. Cecil Anderson sits, reclining on several pillows. He looks leagues better than when Seth had saw him last, but there’s still some trepidation in his steps as he inches forward, and it takes a little nudge from Reigns to get him to approach even further. The man is obviously hooked up to an IV, and Seth winces lightly at the ventilator attached to the elder man’s nose. He looks relatively calm, awake but perhaps a little exhausted, and considering what the man has been through, Seth doesn’t blame that fact in the least. The elder man smiles weakly. “Come now, I’m not on my deathbed.”

        Seth feels his face flushing, and he clears his throat. “Hi, Mr. Anderson.” It then hits him that it’s very possible that the Senator doesn’t remember him. “I’m sorry, my name is Seth and I—”

        “I know who you are, son,” the elderly man replies, shifting slightly. “I called you here, remember?”

        Seth nods. “Yes, right.”

        The man chuckles weakly. “Pull a seat up, son, you look like you’re just as exhausted as I am.”

        Seth nods, but it takes a second for him to actually move, scooting one of the provided chairs closer to the bed and taking a seat. This feels so strange, visiting the hospital room of a man he hardly even met. “How are you feeling?” He asks, not entirely sure why he was brought here in the first place.

        The elder man sighs deeply, and he sinks deeper into the pillows at his back. “Doctor’s say I’ll live, thanks to you.”

        Seth glances away, embarrassed for some reason, and sees Reigns. “It wasn’t just me sir, my teammates helped too,” he says, gesturing to Reigns, who takes the cue and steps to the other side of the bed. He offers a hand to Senator Anderson.

        “Roman Reigns, sir.”

        Anderson reaches for the offered hand and shakes it weakly. “Pleasure to meet you. Forgive the handshake, not going to be up to full strength for a while it seems,” He jokes, and Reigns nods.

        “No offense taken, sir.”

        “You said team _mates_?” Anderson asks, raising a gray brow.

        “The other couldn’t make it,” Reigns answers smoothly. Better for the man not to know that Ambrose hadn’t wanted to come in the first place.

        The elderly man nods, thankfully not questioning the statement, and moving on. He returns his attention to Seth. “I requested you to come here to formally thank you in person, Seth. Were it not for you and your team’s quick actions, I would have surely died at the hands of those kidnappers. So, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”

        Seth wants to protest, can feel it on his tongue, but the genuine and sincere look in the Senator’s eyes keeps him silent. “It was my pleasure, Sir,” he says instead, because it sounds better than letting the Senator know that he saved him because it was the Shield’s job to do so. That fact sours the acknowledgement, but Seth keeps silent about that too.

        Anderson’s face falls slightly. “There is some bad news unfortunately.”

        The admission makes Seth’s heart rate pick up enough that he swears he can actually feel it banging against his rib cage. “Sir?”

        “I’m going to have to step down from my position as Senator for the foreseeable future,” Anderson replies. “The gunshot caused some serious damage to my spinal cord, and there is a great possibility that my legs are at least going to be partially paralyzed.”

        Seth’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open of his own accord. Paralyzed, paralyzed, _paralyzed_! The word continues to repeat in his head, and his heart continues to pound and his stomach sinks like a stone as he tries to comprehend the news. “Paralyzed?” He asks, like it’s the only word he knows now.

        The elder man reaches for him, and places a hand on Seth’s own, a look on his face that is half stern, and half compassionate. It must be a politician look that he’s perfected over the years, and it pierces through Seth as the man speaks. “I know what you’re thinking, Seth, and I want you to stop that thinking immediately. It isn’t your fault that this happened to me, no matter who tells you so, even yourself. You _saved_ me. If you hadn’t have been there, I wouldn’t be here. I sincerely believe that to be the truth.” He gives Seth’s hand a weak squeeze. “I know more now than ever that the WWE is something I should continue to support, especially if it’s future is going to be dominated by people like you, as well as the rest of your team,” He glances at Reigns, who nods in his thanks.

        “Mr. Anderson—” Seth begins, but he’s interrupted by a phone ringing of all things. Both the Senator and Seth look towards the origin of the sound, which surprisingly, is coming from Reigns. The Samoan has it in himself to look embarrassed for a moment as he fishes his phone out of his pocket.

        “Please excuse me,” he says, and steps quickly out of the room.

        Once he leaves, Senator Anderson chuckles. “He’s an interesting fella, isn’t he?”

        Seth actually smiles lightly, and nods. “He is.”

        Anderson sighs, removing his hand from Seth’s. The warmth is missed, despite the fact that he still hardly knows the man. It’s strange though. They have a bond, being the only two people to make it out of that building alive, and the only two to truly know what went down in it. The solidarity is something that Seth wasn’t expecting, but now that he has it, a tiny bit of relief washes over him, loosening the constrictive hold guilt seems to have on his heart and consciousness. “Despite everything that’s happened, I’m here, and alive, and I’m going to make the best of it,” Anderson says, laying more heavily against his pillows. He eyes Seth, and gives him a smile, a twinkle of mirth in his eye, and Seth, for all of his training, all of the Life or Death scenarios he’s been trained for, he still is dumbfounded that the man in front of him can be so glad to be where he is—alive—yet without the use of his legs. “You’re still young, Seth, and you’re going to do a great many of things. I know it.”

        Seth takes a deep breath and exhales. “Thank you, Sir,” he says, the knot in his chest and his stomach loosening even further.

        Unfortunately it’s short lived however. Reigns re-enters the room, a slightly pinched look on his face that Seth immediately doesn’t like. Reigns doesn’t wait for prompting from either Seth or Anderson before speaking. “That was Punk.”

        Seth blinks. “Again?”

        Reigns nods. “You’re being called into headquarters.”

        Seth doesn’t miss the fact that the big guy had said, ‘you’re’. “Just me?”

        Reigns nods in answer. Seth glances back to Anderson, who gives him a wry smile, and waves him away with barely a movement of his hand. “Go, I’ve said what I needed to say. Besides, visiting an old politician can’t be nearly as exciting as whatever they have in store for you. I should get some rest anyway.”

        Seth nods again, his face steeling as his jaw clenches with his swallow. “Thank you, Sir.”

        Anderson shakes his head. “No…thank _you_ .”

 

***

        Seth and Reigns part ways at headquarters, and the younger of the Agents tries to ignore the intentional look that the other gives him, waving and bidding Reigns a half hearted, “See you later.”

        He goes through the motions of checking in, barely registering anything until he’s outside Punk’s office, swiping his ID and pressing a thumbprint into the scanner. The green light of approval blinks at him and the door handle clicks, but even so, Seth carefully opens the door, sort of peeking his head in in case Punk is actually busy with something else. It turns out the man is doing some sort of paperwork at his desk, his face twisted in concentration. As Seth enters he glances up, and his face quirks in a half smile for a second. “Seth, come in” he says, setting his pen down. The younger man chuckles as he watches Punk push the paperwork to the side. Punk’s hated paperwork as long as Seth has known him.

        “You called me in?” Seth says warily, approaching Punk’s desk.

        His Mentor nods. “Yeah, Big Wigs are kinda on my ass about getting that report in and—” his explanation is cut short however, when again, by some coincidence, Punk’s desk phone rings. Seth makes a face. Apparently he’s being surrounded by interrupting phone calls today. The elder man sighs and he glances at Seth. “Speak of the devil and he’ll call your office phone,” He half jokes before answering.

        Seth sort of sways uncomfortably in front of the desk, not sure whether or not he should stay standing or sit down. The uncomfortable feeling doesn’t get any better when as he watches Punk’s face as the man listens to whoever is on the other line. “Yes…Yes I’m—I’m in the middle of—no I—” Punk sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Yes, of course. We’ll be up in a minute.”

        Seth frowns, his brows pulling tight as Punk hangs up the phone and lays a flat look over at Seth. The man sighs. “We’re being summoned.”

        “Summoned?” Seth blinks. “By who?”

        Punk flicks his eyes upwards. “By the big wigs,” he says sarcastically.

 

***

        Seth swallows roughly. He's never really been summoned to the higher ups by himself before, and something deep within his gut screams at him that this is it. Even though the Senator isn't dead, he has to step down from his position, which means a resource for WWE that has lasted practically it's entire existence is now more than likely gone, and it's Seth's fault that he didn't stop the gunman in time. He knows that the Senator has told him that it wasn’t his fault, but he knows himself, knows that he could have, _should_ have been able to stop that kidnapper from shooting the man. Heat and nausea start to build within him, and despite the fact that ever nerve in his body tells him that this is only going to end badly, Seth continues forward, Punk a few steps behind him. He's glad his mentor is here, that adds a little bit of courage back into him, but unfortunately, it isn't much. He's led with Punk to another conference room, however this one is on a higher floor than usual, which again, doesn't help the nervousness, no doubt making his movements tense.

        The door is opened, and they're ushered in, and immediately, Seth is struck with awe. Four people sit before him, but Seth's eyes immediately lock in on the elder man sitting calmly at the head of the table. He's only ever met the man one time in person, and it strikes Seth again how serious this matter was as he stares at none other than the Owner of WWE: Mr. Vincent Kennedy McMahon.

        "Seth," Punk whispers, nudging the younger man forward and snapping him out of his obvious staring.

        It's then when Seth notices the others sitting at the table. Punk's Boss, Paul Heyman is there, looking intrigued rather than the almost cynical glee he wore when Seth saw him last. Mr. Helmsley is there as well, and sitting to his left, is his wife and the successor of WWE: Mrs. Stephanie McMahon-Helmsley. Seth swallows again. This is not good, this is not good at all.

        "Is this the boy?" Mr. McMahon says, and Seth feels frozen to his spot again.

        "Yes, sir," Punk says, and nudges Seth again.

        "Well, have a seat gentleman, it's not like we're going to bite," The owner replies, chuckling a little.

        Despite the little rib, it takes one more nudge from Punk for Seth to finally move, stepping forward. Punk gestures for him to sit at the opposite end of the table to Mr. McMahon, and Seth takes it despite how much he doesn't want to. Punk sits adjacent to him next to his own Boss, and gives Seth a comforting pat on his shoulder before he sits down. Seth wishes it was as comforting as it was probably intended to be. The half blonde agent tries his hardest not to fidget . Instead he says, "Thank you," probably far too late than he should have.

        He studiously avoids the looks he gets on either side of him, and takes a breath, risking to look up at Mr. McMahon, as ready as he'll ever be for what he is sure is going to be a decommission.

        "So you were the man they sent in to rescue Cecil," Mr. McMahon says, and Seth's eyes twitch as he resists flinching at the abruptness of Mr.McMahon's sentence. Alright, so it looks like there's not going to be any beating around the bush or pleasantries. Not like Seth was really expecting any, but it would have been rather nice.

        "Yes sir," he nods, actually impressed with himself that his voice comes out clear and calm in a way that he definitely does not feel.

        Mr. McMahon is quiet for a long moment, his hands laced together on the table in front of him. He watches Seth, and Seth tries his best to maintain eye contact, waiting for the inevitable. He wishes they would just rip it off like a bandaid and get it _over with_ , already. Then, Mr. McMahon sighs, and nods, like he just confirmed something to himself. "I'd like to say from the bottom of my heart, Mr. Rollins. Thank you."

        Seth is struck then. His mouth actually drops open and it takes him a few seconds to recover. When he does he snaps his jaw shut. "S-Sir?" He asks, not even caring about how it stutters slightly when it comes out now. They're, _thanking_ him?

        "The swift actions of you and your team not only saved Senator Anderson, but neutralized a direct threat to myself and my company," Mr. McMahon continues, as if he hadn't heard Seth.

        "Without you, a great benefactor would have been lost and my father potentially harmed or worse," Mrs. McMahon-Helmsley comments, and Seth turns his attention to her, still in a little bit of shock.

        "Congratulations are in order, Mr. Rollins," Mr. Helmsley agrees. "You did an excellent job."

        Seth can't take it anymore, and even though he probably shouldn't, his mouth decides it's going to speak for him. "But Mr. Anderson is practically paralyzed, he had to step down!" Why doesn’t anyone else seem to see the problem? Why is he the _only_ one who’s concerned about that?!

        His mouth snaps shut again just as soon as he says it. Seriously, is he _asking_ for reprehension?

        Punk thankfully speaks up, throwing Seth a lifeline. "He's _alive_ , Seth, without you and the rest of the Shield, that wouldn't have been possible." With the way he speaks, and looks Seth directly in the eyes as he says it, the young agent hears the unspoken, 'take the praise and move on.'

        So he does, he shuts his mouth and nods. "Thank you," he says after a few moments, even though he really doesn't feel it. "It was a privilege to be trusted with such a task."

        "With such little preparation and information, it must've been hard for your team, but you succeeded." Mr. McMahon replies. "And for that, you have my gratitude."

        Mr. Heyman, who had been silent this entire exchange, finally speaks."If these are the results that the Shield can provide, we have high hopes for you all, Mr. Rollins."

        Seth glances at him as well before tearing his eyes away, feeling overwhelmed by the congratulations and applause. It starts to really hit him. They aren't going to decommission him, they didn't even bring him here to reprimand him. They were.... _congratulating_ him, for something that he saw as a major screw up. The half blonde agent bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying anything else.

        Mr. McMahon must decide that the meeting is over with, since he unceremoniously stands, straightening his jacket as he does. The other higher ups in the room begin to stand as well, and Seth follows suit, wondering if it would be a breach of respect to leave before someone says that he can. So for a moment he stands there awkwardly, but thankfully, Mr. McMahon actually saves him from his internal floundering. He approaches Seth with a swagger in his step almost unbefitting of a man his age, and offers a hand. Seth takes it without hesitation, and it once again surprises him when the handshake has a strength to it. Mr. McMahon almost pulls him in, the elder man's free hand coming to rest outside of Seth's palm for a moment as he shakes. He smiles, "A pleasure, Mr. Rollins."

        "Likewise," Seth replies with a swallow, trying to give back as vigorous handshake as he's receiving.

        Mr. McMahon's smile widens. "Punk," he says. "Take this kid home, he looks like he could use the rest. I don't blame him with the past couple days he's had," He gives Seth a wink, like he's making a joke that only the two of them are privy to, and Seth would very much like to be in on this supposed joke too, since he actually has no idea whether the man is being serious or not.

        Punk doesn't answer, but Mr. McMahon doesn't seem to care. He gives Seth's hand one more firm shake before releasing it, and strolling out the door. Mr. Heyman goes next after saying something to Punk that Seth can't quite hear, offering a quick, almost reflexive smile at Seth as he leaves.

        Mr. Helmsley and his wife however, seem to linger around Seth. Once Mr. Heyman leaves, Ms. McMahon-Helmsley quickly strides over to offer Seth her hand, which he takes. He's only ever met her once or twice before, and her handshake is just as strong as her father's. Mr. Helmsley offers his hand as well, and when Seth takes it, he speaks. "You've done impressive work in such a short period of time, Mr. Rollins. You and the Shield." He leans in a little bit, and Seth involuntarily swallows as the man's sharp eyes meet his. "Stephanie and I believe you are shaping up to have quite the potential as a fully fledged Agent."

        Seth swallows again. "T-Thank you, Mr. Helmsley," he says on reflex, for lack of anything better his brain can think of to say at that given moment. "Ms. McMahon-Helmsley," he adds, looking at her and offering a nod.

        The couple chuckle in almost unison, and Seth can feel how sweaty his palm is after Mr. Helmsley releases it. It falls almost limply to Seth's side, and he feels like a complete idiot. "Please, call us by our first names," Ms. McMahon-Helmsley, replies with a smile, and with all of his polite upbringing and training, Seth isn't entirely sure he is even physically able to do so.

        "You can call me Seth, if you like," He offers weakly instead, figuring it would be wise to offer the same courtesy to his bosses.

        The two of them smile and nod amicably. "Well then," _Stephanie_ says, and it's very very strange to call her that in his head. "We best be going, right Hunter?"

        Her husband nods, then claps Seth on the shoulder briefly. "We'll be keeping an eye on you, Seth."

        A frisson of goosebumps runs down Seth's spine at the familiar touch and the use of his first name on the lips of his boss, and he once again nods, smiling in what is hopefully a pleasant manner and hopefully isn't as forces looking as it feels. "Thank you."

        Finally, they move to leave, and Seth feels like he can breathe normally again. It's not like the air around the couple was oppressive per say, just...intense. Very much like the two of them own the space that they take up at any given time. It's a strange phenomena to be surrounded by people with so much power, and Seth feels a little dizzy from it.

        Punk's voice, as it often does, brings him back. "You ready to go?" He places his hand on the shoulder that Mr. Helmsley had, clapped him on, and practically starts to steer Seth out of the room before the younger man can even give an answer.

        They are out of the conference room and practically at the elevator before Seth speaks again. "I thought they were going to decommission me," he admits softly, staring at the white tile floor as they walk.

        Punk presses a knuckle against the call button and gives Seth a look, his brows pulled low over his eyes. " _Excuse me?_ " He asks, like he didn't quite hear Seth correctly.

        Seth shrugs half-heartedly without looking Punk in the eye, like a little kid being scolded for saying something he really shouldn't have brought up in the first place.

        Punk sighs in time with the elevator door opening, and he quickly ushers Seth in with a hand to his back, and Seth's lips pull tight. The older man doesn't respond until the doors close, and they're as alone as they probably could be in this setting. "Seth—" the half blonde knows an order when he hears one, even if it isn't a direct order, and he looks up at Punk, even though his heart is still pounding and he's still in disbelief that he hasn't been penalized for what happened with Anderson. Punk is frowning, but the look is his dark eyes is anything but angry. "What is it about this mission that has you so messed up?" He steps closer to Seth and places a hand on his shoulder, _really_ looking Seth in the eyes, and it's like his mentor can see right through him, read everything on his face no matter how much training he's had. "You didn't _fail_ , Seth. In fact, you and Roman and Dean are practically miracle workers for pulling off what you did with what you had."

        Seth finds his voice then, ready to protest. "It's—"

        However, he doesn't get to finish, because Punk cuts him off. "No, I'm not done, Seth. Whatever it is that's got you so in your head about this isn't worth worrying about," he says, and Seth knows he's trying to be helpful, trying to snap Seth out of it, but telling him not to worry? Honestly not really helping him out any. Punk must notice somehow, and the man sighs, pulling back slightly, but keeping his hand on Seth's shoulder. "Seth, when I saw you after your operation, I can honestly say that I have never been more relieved and more proud."

        Seth blinks. "Proud?" How in the world could he—?

        "Yeah, Seth, proud." Punk nods.  "What you did on that mission, proved to me and to the rest of the company that I was right about the three of you. If any of this is any indication, there is no limit to where you can go and the amazing things that you can do."

        Punk says nothing more as the elevator finally comes to a stop at their destination, and as the doors slide open and Seth sees a car there waiting for him, he realizes that Punk actually _did_ escort him all the way down here, even when he didn't need to. Punk removes his hand, and stays behind as Seth steps out of the elevator. His Mentor's words ring in his head, and Seth turns back, reaching out to stop the elevator doors from closing. Punk glances up, as if he didn't expect Seth to do so, and raises a brow. "Thank you," Seth says, trying to convey everything that's been swirling around in his mind the past two days with those words, in addition to putting as much veracity in them as he possibly can.

        Punk smiles then, leaning back against the back wall of the elevator. "See you soon Seth."

        Seth let's the doors go, "See you soon Boss." Then, a thought comes to him. "Wait, the report?"

        As the doors start to close, Punk snorts a laugh. "Just write one out and send it to me when you're ready."

        Seth doesn't get a chance to argue before the elevator doors close in his face. He stares at them for a moment, before letting out an actual chuckle.

        And even though Punk’s words had encouraged him, the closer he gets to home and the further away he gets from those encouraging words, the more he can feel his brain start the entire cycle again, unrelenting it it’s assuredness that there must have been _something_ he could have done differently.

 

***

        The wind whipping across their balcony pierces through Seth, the cold settling into his bones, but he doesn’t even really feel it. He just stares, with his elbows braced against the railing and his hands loosely laced together beyond that. To the typical outsider, it would just seem like he’s relaxing, staring out into space and not really thinking about anything, just enjoying the outside, even though it’s getting colder and darker every minute he stands out there. That couldn’t be more from the truth. Despite the fact that his face is calm, everything on the inside is anything but. Seth can’t help but continue the cycle of pouring over every single little detail in the mission that he remembers, trying to think, trying to find somewhere along the line where he could have done something, so that Anderson could have been rescued unharmed. He _must_ have missed something, he could have done _something_ , but no matter how hard he thinks, no matter how many times he’s gone over it in his head, he can’t find another way out.

        That’s his job, finding the best way out of a nasty situation, that’s what he’s _good_ at and yet…

        There must have been a better option, a better course of action that wouldn’t have left Mr. Anderson holed up in a hospital, practically paralysed and unable to do his job. If Seth had done better, had figured out _something,_ had done _his_ _job_...

        The thank-yous and the congratulations eased the sting a little bit, yet at the same time he feels like he didn’t deserve them. They sour every time he thinks about them because he didn’t speak up enough, didn’t say he didn’t deserve the praise because there _must_ have been some other way. There _must have!_

        “You lookin’ to get your dumb ass frozen off?”

        Seth almost instantly snaps out of his brain, turning his head sharply to look over his shoulder. Ambrose is partially leaning against the open door leading inside, looking bored. “It’s fine,” Seth finds his voice. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

        “And I’m sure you’ve been telling yourself that for the past two hours you’ve been out here,” Ambrose replies, still not moving. Seth doesn’t dignify him with a response, just turns back to the world outside and resolutely tries to ignore the other man. Eventually, Ambrose will get bored and— “If you’re gonna brood fucking do it in your room, you’re an eyesore.”

        “You could just close the blinds,” Seth replies idly, not rising to the dig.

        It’s silent behind him for a long moment, before he hears the sliding door start to close. At least Ambrose won’t— “Scoot the fuck over you’re takin’ up all the space.”

        Seth frowns, looking to his right where Ambrose is now standing in a long sleeved shirt and jeans, his hands stuffed into his pockets and chewing loudly on a piece of gum. “Why?”

        “Gotta make sure your dumbass doesn’t die,” and Seth can’t really tell whether or not the other man is kidding.

        “I’m fi—”

        “You’re obviously not fine, so shut the hell up.” Seth’s mouth actually shuts. He looks back over the balcony, and does precisely what Ambrose demands of him. A stretch of silence falls between them, even the smacking of Ambrose’s gum falling quiet. “It’s fucking freezing out here.”

        “You didn’t have to come out here, I said I was—”

        “And I told you to shut the fuck up about that. I don’t like being lied to.”

        Seth doesn’t respond with anything more than a small sigh. Good luck with that sentiment in fucking Espionage, you asshole.

        The half blonde tries valiantly to go back to what he was doing, running over facts and actions over his head for the perhaps thousandth time, but he finds the presence of Ambrose standing at his side _just_ distracting enough that he can’t focus. The taller man snaps at his gum several times.

        “You gonna come inside?”

        Seth shuts his eyes and heaves a breath through his nose, exhaling slowly. His breath clouds the air for a few seconds before it vanishes just as quickly as it came. “If I do will you leave me alone?”

        “Kinda hard when we live together.”

        Seth opens his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

        Ambrose shrugs. “I’d rather deal with your moods and you being a dumbass as little as possible.”

        “And you think calling me a dumbass is going to get you anywhere?”

        “You’re present, ain’t ya?”

        “What?”

        Ambrose scratches at his chin and pops his gum once. “You’ve been out here for the better part of a couple hours, just staring, hardly moving, trapped in your brain thinkin’ whatever it is you’re thinkin’. You’ve been like that for the past two days too. At least now you’re engaging. It’s better than the soon-to-be-frozen-corpse you were imitating.”

        Seth look over at Ambrose, _really_ looks at him. The man looks unhappy, his lips tight and his brows pulled low over his bright eyes. Seth is struck suddenly, with the question that’s been nagging at him since this all happened. “Do you think I did the right thing?”

        Ambrose seems a little taken aback, maybe not expecting a question and certainly not that question in particular. He glances away from Seth’s gaze, chewing and popping his gum several times before taking a breath. “I wasn’t there, man. I can’t judge you for somethin’ I wasn’t there for.” Seth’s face falls. It’s not as though it’s sad, it’s just….nothing. Ambrose’s lips pull tight and he scratches at the back of his head. “Anderson is alive.”

        Seth scoffs. “Barely.”

        A frustrated noise comes out of the back of the taller man’s throat. “Look. I don’t know what to tell you other than you can’t fucking change the past, so there’s no use in feeling shitty about it—” he gestures a little with his hands “—If you’re so hell bent on it botherin’ you so much, fucking take it as motivation to do better next time, or whatever makes it so you’re not like... _this._ ” He gestures at Seth with a frown.

        Seth’s eyes squint in disbelief, his expression almost looking pained. “How is this so _easy_ for you?”

        Ambrose shrugs. “It’s not.” Seth waits for him to elaborate further, but he doesn’t, and it makes Seth sigh.

        Both Ambrose and Reigns of all people know what he’s going through, but even so, they don’t know what it’s like to be in his head. It’s not like he _wants_ to go over every single detail of the mission, _pouring_ over everything, desperately searching for a better way, _something_ so he’ll stop feeling like a failure. He’d _much_ rather be able to look at it objectively and get on with his life and the operations that are sure to come.

        He just wants to make sure that if something like this ever comes up again, he doesn’t want the same outcome to _ever_ happen again. It’s precautionary action, for when the inevitable comes and Seth is placed in a very similar situation again. He wants to be able to do better, and the fear is is that if he _can’t_ find a better way, and what he did _was_ the best solution, that he’ll second guess himself, and everything will end up worse than it did two days ago.

        Ambrose huffs out a breath, letting his lips trill with it. “Shitty thing is, you can’t change what happened. Like I said, already done.” He moves, resting his forearms on the balcony railing beside Seth. “There is something you _can_ do, though…”

        Seth hears the trailing off for what it is, and for the moment, he indulges the other man. “And that would be?” He asks rather dryly, even though he knows Ambrose is going to tell him anyway.

        He is a little taken aback however when Ambrose’s elbow bumps into his. It’s light, and it’s quick, and Seth doesn’t really have time to react or mention it before Ambrose is talking again. “You can find those motherfuckers who set this whole thing up—” He motions a circle with one finger “—and take out a little stress, if you catch my drift.” He finishes, enunciating the last ‘t’ and giving Seth a pointed look.

        “You saying we should participate in mob justice?” Seth replies, his mouth tweaking upwards, just slightly.

        “I wouldn’t say _mob_ justice.” Ambrose shrugs, pursing his lips, raising his brows, and looking up and away from Seth. “ _They_ know who _we_ are, and _we’re_ gonna find out who _they_ are, and when _we_ find out who _they_ are, _we’re_ gonna be sent off to make sure that _they_ never reveal who _we_ are. All I’m saying is, there’s an opportunity there for you if you wanna take it.”

        Seth rolls his eyes in a good-natured manner, directing his gaze to Ambrose, who’s now staring out over the balcony, his face not flat but….calm? Seth stares for a long moment, watching the wind blow through the wild strands of Ambrose’s hair. “Let’s go inside,” he says eventually. “It’s freezing out here.”

        Dean snorts and turns away to the door. “Fucking _finally_.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to a migraine I didn't proofread this chapter as many times as I usually do, and I wanted to get this out to you all, so if there's any glaring mistakes, please let me know and I will fix them when my head doesn't feel like it's going to explode lol.


	12. Chapter 12

***

      “Do you think it would be too much to ask for Christmas off?” Seth asks idly into the air, laying horizontal across the couch, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t really expect any answers, but of course he gets one.

      “Do you mean literally or figuratively?” Ambrose replies, in a similar state of relaxation in his favorite chair, his legs dangling off the edge of the arm like a little kid.

      A week has passed since their last operation, "The Anderson Case" as Seth has been calling it in his mind, and Seth is just starting to feel back to normal from it. The congratulations have died down, and the lack of contact from the man has helped Seth put it out of his mind and compartmentalize. Not the best practice, he knows, but he also knows that he needs to move on. If he dwells entirely too long with The Anderson Case, it's going to negatively affect his future operations, and that's something that he is aware that he cannot allow to happen.

      Spending time with his family back home, actually having a holiday for the first time in over a year, would be incredibly nice. The ability to just put all of this Espionage work out of his mind for a day or two, and just be a normal person. As much as he loves Espionage and the WWE—practically lives and breathes it—there are times when he wishes the company was a little more lax on holidays. He supposes when they're finally out of the stupid trial period, they may have more say in taking days off. The three of them are all unfortunately victims of bad timing, coming out of training and starting their trial period so close to the holidays in the first place hasn't done them any favors.

      "Literally," Seth answers, not bothering to even look at Ambrose in the eye. He feels lazy, but also a mixture of a little stir crazy, since they haven't had a mission since The Anderson Case. Seth knows it's only been like a week, but a week where he's basically stuck with his teammates at their apartment or in town and on call so he can report to headquarters whenever they need him—and then not getting a call—is pretty damn frustrating all things considered.

      Ambrose's voice pushes him out of his thoughts again. "What for?"

      Seth actually does roll his head on the couch arm he's laying on so he can give Ambrose a face. "To visit my family?" He asks, his tone a little condescending, because seriously, what the hell else would he want to have time off for? The half blonde remembers too late however, about Ambrose's family and holiday situation, and the look Ambrose gives him—wide eyes like he just realized he said something wrong and then an avoidance of gaze—makes his stomach pinch. Right...Shit. "I haven't seen them in a while," He adds quickly, more softly and explanatory than before.

      "Me either," Reigns comments from the kitchen, rinsing some of the pots and pans by hand since it's his turn. "Would be nice to see them."

      Seth mentally thanks Reigns for the save, and glances back at Ambrose, who's scratching at his hairline. "Guess so," he says, probably for lack of anything better to say.

      Awkward silence hangs under the sound of the sink and the clinking of pans being washed and Seth resolutely stares at the ceiling, jiggling one of his feet where they’re crossed at the ankles and not saying a damn word. Maybe if he keeps quiet his stupid comment will blow over and everything will be—

      “‘M gonna take a shower,” Ambrose suddenly says, swinging himself up and out of his chair in one quick, fluid motion. Seth glances at him, tight lipped. “Feel gross,” Ambrose explains without looking at either of his teammates, both of his thumbs tapping idly on his thighs, like he’s trying to decide whether or not he should say anything else.

      “Should still be enough hot water,” Reigns says calmly instead, “I didn’t use too much.”

      Ambrose glances at him, then down at the floor, then to the hallway. “Ok thanks,” he replies, taking a second before actually moving. It makes Seth wonder whether or not he was saying that just to say something, but since Reigns replied he actually has to follow through now.

      Only once Ambrose is safely in the bathroom does Seth move. He needs some fucking water. He swings himself up off the couch not unlike how Ambrose had, striding into the kitchen to do just that. He doesn’t pay attention to Reigns, only hears the continuous sound of the sink running and the occasional soft clinking of the pans as his teammate maneuvers them.

      Reigns had actually bought a water filter recently, claiming that the tap water tasted too much like metal for his liking, and Seth’s kind of glad, since he can use it instead of having to go to the sink and ask Reigns if he can move. Even though he’s sure that the man isn’t looking at him, Seth knows that Reigns is hyper aware of his presence—and vice versa to be honest—and he’d rather not address that.

      Unfortunately for Seth, as he downs his glass of water in front of the counter, the sink turns off, and the big man speaks. “Seth.”

      The younger man tries not to flinch. Oh, he _really_ doesn’t like the tone. He fills up his glass again, taking a sip so maybe he can avoid answering for a few seconds more. It doesn’t work, because Reigns says his name again. Seth sighs through his nose, swallowing the mouthful of water, and turns. Reigns is drying his hands with a towel, focusing on it, but Seth knows better. He’s waiting for a response.

      “Yeah?”

      Reigns gestures towards the living room with one hand. "I want to talk to you about something."

      Seth doesn't move, his eyes moving from Reigns' hands to his face. "About what?" He asks, his tone wary.

      Reigns sighs, his hands dropping and his eyes flicking up at the ceiling for a moment. "At first I was just gonna let this slide, but with how you talked to Dean, I don't think I should," he explains.

      Seth frowns. "What do you mean, how did I talk to him?" He asks, slightly feigning ignorance. It's not like he was antagonizing Ambrose on purpose. He just fucking forgot that the other man isn't exactly chock full of 'normal' experiences when it comes to family and holidays. It's not something that would have come up were it not for the fact that they were knee deep in the Holiday season itself.

      The older man stares at him flatly. "You recanted your comment." Damn. He had done that hadn't he? Well, it's not like he's _actually_ an asshole. It's not like he's gonna bully Ambrose for not thinking about why someone would want to have free time during the Holidays. He's not cruel. "It reminded me of when we went shopping before Thanksgiving," Reigns adds, and that shocks the indignation right out of Seth.

      "Shit," he murmurs underneath his breath, closing his eyes and keeping them closed for a few seconds as he sighs. When he opens them, Reigns gestures towards the living room again, and Seth moves this time.

      Seth takes the other love seat—the one facing away from the front door—sitting down on it with his legs folded underneath him. Without thinking, he grabs one of the throw pillows and holds it to his stomach, hunching slightly and feeling an awful lot like a child about to receive a scolding from their parent. Reigns takes a seat on the couch and leans his forearms on his thighs, not quite making eye contact with Seth. The half blonde had honestly sort of forgotten about pissing Ambrose off in the wake of the whole Anderson Incident, and at the time he had had an inkling that Reigns was going to try to talk to him about it, but had honestly forgotten, and for good reason.

      He's kind of sour that Reigns deems it appropriate to talk about it again. It's not like Seth didn't learn his lesson, and it's not like he did it on purpose. Again, how the hell was he supposed to know about Ambrose? The guy never fucking opens up about anything in the first place, so why should Reigns even bring this up?

      The more he thinks about it, the more little bits of anger start to pile up in his chest. He squeezes the pillow to his chest and tries not to frown too much even though it feels like it's the only thing his face can do right now. He watches Reigns look at him/not quite look at him for a few seconds, before the big man heaves a sigh. "So what happened at the supermarket?"

      Seth face pinches. Really? He sighs and shrugs, hunching into the pillow a little bit more. "I said something stupid on accident and it pissed Ambrose off, no big deal."

      "Seemed like a bigger deal to Dean than you think it did," Reigns replies idly, almost giving him a slow blink, as if to say, 'I'm not that stupid so try again.'

      Seth hates that it works.

      He takes a deep breath, prepared to get it out as fast as possible so they can just move on from this already. "Ok, so after we split up at the store I met up with Ambrose pretty quickly, and he just kept asking me questions on what he should get as we're like walking through the aisles. At first I didn't really think anything of it but then he _keeps_ asking me. It gets to the point where we're like standing in the aisle in front of _cranberry_ sauce of all things and he asks again and I finally get to the point were I ask him _why_ he's asking _me_ what he should get and if he wants it he should just get it and—"

      Reigns interrupts him. " _Woah_ , Woah—Slow down." He says, raising a halting hand. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're not—You're not in _trouble_ just...just _tell_ me." He adds, his voice sounding pinched and actually kind of exhausted.

      Seth sighs again, pressing his face into the pillow and peeking over the edge at Reigns. He starts again, slower this time. "Then he kinda just shrugs and says he was asking 'cause he thought I knew more about Thanksgiving than him, and I ask him why he'd think that. He tells me 'You've had more Thanksgivings than I ever have'. And...I don't know," Seth says, idly rubbing a thumb over the fabric of the pillow. "The way he said it, wasn't normal? It was like he was a hundred percent certain that that was true. I couldn't imagine why, so...."

      "You asked him why?" Reigns supplies after Seth's hesitation, not sounding angry or accusatory, but a little off, and Seth doesn't like how he can't place his finger on it.

      "I specifically asked him whether or not his family celebrated it or not," He admits, now avoiding Reigns' gaze, stroking the pillow fabric just a little harder.

      "Oh."

      "Yeah."

      "Did he.....say anything to that?"

      Seth squeezes the pillow to him tighter. He doesn't really want to say it even though now it's the only thing he can think of. The sad way Ambrose had told him that he didn't really have a family to celebrate the holidays with and that this Thanksgiving could have very well been the first he's ever really had. While Seth remembers how irritated he had been at the fact that he had felt guilty at the time—still kinda does really now that they're focused on the subject—he doesn't really feel it that much now. Especially due to the fact that their Thanksgiving dinner had been interrupted by the whole Anderson Case. A flash of memory of Ambrose talking to him as he was desperately performing CPR on Anderson burns through his mind.

 

_“When we get Anderson out of here, we’re going to report to Punk, then we’re going the fuck home and finishing our goddamn Thanksgiving dinner. I ain’t letting that food go to waste. I was promised a fucking Thanksgiving dinner, and I’m not gonna let some assholes ruin it any more than they already have.”_

 

      "Seth?" Reigns asks, pulling the man out of his head, and honestly, he thought he was pretty much over that now. Apparently not.

      Seth sits up straighter. "He said it was hard to celebrate holidays with a family when you don't really have one in the first place," he replies softly.

      Reigns actually makes eye contact with Seth for a second, and the half blonde doesn't know why he still feels like he's about to be scolded, but he waits for Reigns' reaction. The elder man's eyes flick away again, and Seth watches him run his tongue over his teeth underneath his lips. He opens his mouth when he finishes, and exhales. "That's rough," he finally says.

      Seth doesn't know quite exactly what he's referring to when he says, 'rough'. He could be commenting on a lot of things in that story that Seth would classify as 'rough'. Seth doesn't ask him to clarify though, not wanting to drag on the conversation any longer than it needs to. "So he walked off and after that we met up with you," Seth finishes. There, now Reigns has been brought up to speed.

      The big man rubs a hand over his beard, staring just above Seth's eye line. "I can't imagine what that's like," he comments softly, like he's half talking to himself.

      So holidays were big in Reigns' family too. Seth mentally checks that off on his mental list of 'Things I Know About Roman Reigns'. It's relatively small all things considered, but compared to Ambrose...

      "Me either." Seth shifts one of his feet that's starting to fall asleep as they sit there. "That's why I asked."

      Reigns doesn't respond again for a few long seconds, shaking his head and lightly with a gaze that's far away. He must be reminiscing something, and Seth honestly hasn't the foggiest idea about what it could be other than the fact that it's probably about Ambrose. "Pretty sure we're the only family he has."

      Seth is so struck he physically rears back in the chair, his voice raised as he speaks. "We're not—!" A sharp snapping of those silver eyes meeting his own immediately cows down his flush of indignation and shock. For once it is he who can't maintain that eye contact and he looks away, hunching back into the pillow like it will actually offer him one modicum of protection again Reigns. "Family," he finishes lamely, peeking up at Reigns from over the edge of the pillow again.

      Reigns doesn't even bother to hide an exasperated sigh. He shakes his head in what Seth assumes is disbelief. "Whatever you want to call it, we're probably the closest thing to it, and you can't argue with that."

      Seth wants to. He really _does_ want to, but Reigns is unfortunately right. While Ambrose has other Agents and trainees that he would occasionally talk to and do drills with, Seth and Reigns are the ones who live with him. Seth knows that Ambrose is good at making breakfast foods. He knows that if Ambrose has a pretty terrible sleeping problem, but if he does get any sleep he'll probably wake up some time in between Reigns and Seth, depending on when Seth goes for his run. He knows that the man doesn't like hospitals and that he chews enough gum that it's a wonder that he doesn't have jaw problems.

      He also knows that Ambrose doesn't really have a family to speak of.

      It's not much, but it's probably more than anyone else in this world knows about him.

      "I guess not," Seth says, noncommittally. He slumps in the love seat, glancing off towards the bathroom, where the shower is still running. "Do you think this is going to work out?" He doesn't have to clarify what 'this' is. Reigns knows.

      "It's only been a month," he replies. "And you haven't strangled each other yet."

      Seth moves his eyes in a roll from the bathroom back to Reigns. "'Yet' being the operative word there."

      Reigns shrugs. "Whether or not this works out is up to us."

      Seth kicks his legs out from underneath him, flexing them a little to get blood moving again. "I guess."

      Reigns leans back against the couch finally. "If you're so set on this succeeding, we have to put in the work, Seth."

      "Won't matter much if one of us doesn't agree to that fact," His eye flick pointedly over to the bathroom.

      "Won't do anything if we don't even try first," Reigns counters matter-of-factly.

      The shower abruptly turns off. Seth glances at Reigns. "This conversation over now?" He asks, jerking his head towards the bathroom.

      The Samoan stands. "For now," he replies, and Seth really has no idea where the conversation could possibly go from where it ended, but apparently Reigns can.

  


***

      Whereas Dean can't find Rollins in the house, not that he went through a lot of trouble _trying_ to find him, he finds Roman in the living room standing in front of the sliding glass window. Curious, Dean approaches, and immediately sees what the big man is staring at. "Damn, it's really comin' down, aint it?" He asks, watching fat flakes of snow flurry almost sideways before sticking to the ground, which is already covered in a sheet of white.

      Roman doesn't answer other than a low almost irritated hum, and on peeking at the big man's face, Dean can't help but snort out a laugh. The Samoan is practically pouting as he stares out at the snowfall, a bigger frown than Dean has ever seen on him, and he can't help but laugh some more. "Not fond of the snow, Big Guy?" He asks.

      "Weather says it could be three inches," Roman replies, still staring out at said weather like it's personally offended him.

      Dean shrugs. "That's not that bad."

      Roman finally turns away from the window, only to give Dean a flat look that still has a tint of pouty frown in it. "Every hour."

      Dean glances back at the snow outside and whistles. "Sky decided to dump on us, then." Roman hums noncommittally, and goes back to staring at the outside world, which is steadily becoming more and more white as they stand there. "What's the temp?" Dean asks after a second, figuring Roman probably already knows if he went through the trouble of watching or looking up the weather of all things.

      " _Twenty four_ ," Roman replies, and he sounds bitter at the fact, and Dean can't help but chuckle again.

      "Don't like the cold either I take it?" He asks.

      Roman deadpans. "I'm from Florida."

      Dean whistles again. “Bummer.”

      Roman heaves a sigh. “There go my plans.”

      “You had plans?” Dean raises a brow at him.

      “Wanted to take a car to a shop downtown.”

      Dean glances back up at the sky. “Yeah, no, don’t think that’s happening.”

      “I mean, you could walk,” Dean suggests, and he gets exactly the reaction he was expecting. Roman looks at him like he just admitted to committing a murder outside of their work conditions, and Dean shrugs. “It’s either that or wait until the snow lets up,” He says, pointing a thumb at the window, where the snow is decidedly _not_ letting up.

      Roman kind of deflates. “It’s not that important,” he dismisses, shaking his head.

      “I’ll go with you, if you want,” Dean offers, leaning against the sliding glass window. It’s pleasantly cold against his back.

      “It’s fine, I’ll go some other day,” Roman says, waving him off and walking towards the hallway.

      “Well, if the snow doesn’t let up, it’s gonna take a long ass time for that—“ Dean points outside again, “To get clear enough to drive.”

      Roman stops in his tracks. It takes a second, but he heaves a great sigh. “Alright, fine, let’s go,” he says, sounding as though Dean suggested they walk through hell and is only begrudgingly going along. With how the big man seems to feel about the snow, it doesn’t seem like that big of a difference to him. Dean smirks and approaches Roman, throwing an arm around his shoulder.

      “C’mon man, it’ll be _fine_.”

 

      It is decidedly _not_ fine. Even though Roman has bundled himself in what looks like every warm thing he owns, the snow picks up even more about halfway to their destination. Dean half expects the man to call it quits, but Roman is determined now, and he trudges through the snowfall. Dean, dressed only slightly different than usual—a long sleeve shirt and a hoodie underneath his leather jacket and warmer wool socks underneath his boots—trails behind him, occasionally blowing snow out of his eyes and hair and carefully stepping around so he doesn’t slip in the downpour.

      The route Roman takes sends them down several blocks side streets, more towards the older part of town Dean hasn’t really visited yet. He’s not really one to call for rides, and he’s never really had a reason to walk this way. There aren’t many people actually walking or even driving out in this weather, the only ones being those who are almost frantically shoveling and trying to clear the snow away from their storefronts and their cars.

      Finally, Roman starts to slow down when they reach what looks like, an outlet store? Dean makes a face, but follows the big guy anyways, that is, until Roman stops dead in his tracks.

      It is _really_ decidedly _not_ fine.

      “It’s closed.”

      Dean reads the sign on the front door, apologizing for the closure and saying they’ll be open once the snow clears up. He resists the urge to whistle again. “That….sucks,” he says. The pit of his stomach squirms a little bit. It’s kind of his fault they’re even here. “I’m—“

      “Let’s just go,” Roman cuts him off with a sigh, and Dean winces a little before following after him. Shit.

  
  


      Roman's mood doesn't seem to have improved any, even with the fact that the snow isn't falling quite as hard. He's still hunched in his jacket, and it still amazes Dean that someone so big and packed with undoubtedly warm muscle can shrink so much in the cold.

      Dean can tell as they head back towards the apartment, that Roman is trying desperately to still walk quickly as to get out of the snow faster, but is also trying to maintain a distance from Dean that doesn't feel like he's abandoning him. Dean smirks, and intentionally slows down his walking, just a bit, feigning that he's looking up and around, taking in the sights of the snow covering everything. Realistically, it's actually quite pretty and relaxing, the snow fall, but Dean knows that everyone—including himself—will get tired of it soon enough. However, now, everything seems to fall into a hush, and the quiet snowfall is nice to watch. Dean can also physically _feel_ the look Roman is giving him as the continue to walk, physically slowing himself down and glancing back at Dean. The slighter man is just waiting for Roman to say something, but watching Roman struggle with himself over his hatred for the snow and his politeness is quite the unique and entertaining experience.

      Eventually, Roman's want to get out of the snow overpowers his want to be polite, even though the snow has practically stopped at this point, the flakes nowhere near as fat and plentiful as they were when they were staring out the window earlier. Roman walks with purpose, trying to stay on the marginally plowed sidewalks and pathways people have created just so getting around isn't such a chore. Dean however finds himself stepping into untouched snow, pleased by the sound of it as it crunches and compresses underneath his weight. Also the idea of being the one to ruin the perfect sleekness of the snow is supremely satisfying in his mind, so he takes a few steps here and there off the path just to be that asshole.

      He sputters some of his wet hair out of his eyes—he didn't bother to wear a hat—and watches Roman in front of him. The longer he watches as they walk, a wicked urge rises up stronger and stronger. They're almost back to the apartment now, and as Roman rounds the corner into the apartment grounds, Dean leans down quickly, and swipes up two healthy handfuls of snow. It's frigid and stings his ungloved fingers, but he squished the handfuls together as he rounds the corner himself, compacting them into a softball sized ball. He doesn't pack it too hard together—he doesn't want it to _hurt_ —but just enough that it won't fall apart in his hands. Reigns is still facing away from him as they walk, and Dean can't help but smile as he takes aim, his tongue just barely sticking out of the side of his lip. With a heave, he lets it fly and hisses, "Yes!" in victory as the snowball lands right on it's intended target, the upper part of the big man's back. To his credit, the surprised noise Roman makes isn't quite as loud as it could have been, but Dean definitely hears it, and can only describe it as a yelp. Some of the snow must have hit the little strip of skin between the top of his coat and his hat, and Dean pats himself on the back for his marksmanship.

      After Roman's little yelp however, he whips around, and even from as far away as he is, Dean can see those silver eyes flashing in anger. Dean just smiles however—unperturbed—his hands stuffed in his pockets.

      "Did you seriously just throw a snowball at me?" Roman asks slowly, and Dean can't help the chuckle that falls out of his mouth.

      He gestures to the empty parking lot. "You see anyone else here, Big Man?"

      Roman stares at him for a long second, his brows pulled low over his eyes and that pouty frown at full force. Then he moves suddenly, reaching down to quickly scrape some snow together with his hands, and Dean actually gasps in delight. The slighter man sprints to the closest pile of snow and grabs some himself, but he's a little behind, and he sees Roman throw his snowball before he has a chance to run out of the way. He turns though, shutting his eyes and hunching, and the snowball hits him in the shoulder. The snow disperses and some of it gets on his face, and he splutters, shaking his head and flicking his hair out of his eyes before turning back and running towards Roman, who has bent over to pick up more snow. He seems to realize Dean is heading for him, a snowball already in the younger man's hands, and he swears, grabbing what snow he does have and turning to run.

      It doesn’t escape Dean that the older man has a smile on his face.

      He shouts in delight, running after Roman, brandishing the snowball like it's a weapon. His fingers are tingling, practically numb along with his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and his nose is running from the sudden exertion in the cold weather, but he's having so much fucking fun doing something so stupid. He honestly can't really remember the last time he had a real snowball fight.

      He pulls in close, and just as Roman turns to throw his own snowball, Dean hops up a little and hurls his down. Roman ends up with snow on his neck again—almost his face—and Dean, having hopped up, gets a snowball right against the strip of skin between his shirt and his pants. The auburn haired man downright cackles, but it's rather short lived when he lands directly on a patch of almost-ice, and his feet slip right out from underneath him. He gasps, and out of instinct, reaches forward as he slips, gripping onto Roman's sleeves. Unfortunately, the unexpected momentum leaves Roman caught off guard, and though he does grab onto Dean, he turns the wrong way, and instead of catching Dean's fall, it sends them both right into a snow pile off to the side of the path. Dean swears as their knees knock together and Roman's elbow comes up and smacks him dead center on his nose. With one hand he reaches up to his nose, his eyes screwing shut at the bloom of pain that shoots across his face.

      "Shit! Are you ok?" Roman's hands are gripping at his biceps now, and Dean manages to creek one eye open against the pain, a single involuntary tear slipping down over his cheek. Roman looks genuinely worried, his eyebrows upturned and his eyes flicking over Dean's face.

      Dean exhales once through his nose, sharply, checking if anything is loose in there. Thankfully, he only gets another annoying throb of pain, so he considers that fine. "M'good," he says through a hiss, blinking his eyes several times to stop them from watering any more.

      His hands are still tingling, and now both of his knees are soaked through his jeans, both of them planted in the snow and tangled up with Roman's own legs. He uses his palms to push himself up, his hands compressing the snow at Roman's sides. He looks down at the bigger man, who has graduated from looking concerned, back to that disgruntled pout. His hat had come off as they fell, and his hair is fanned out in the snow, some it sticking wetly to his face and over his eyes. Dean snorts and ignores the pain in his nose for how grumpy Roman looks. "I'd say I won that scuffle," he jokes. "Sorry for making you fall too," he adds on a more serious note, going to push himself up further so that they can both stand up and avoid soaking their clothes any more than necessary.

      He doesn't get too far before a handful of snow is shoved against the right side of his face, and Dean yelps and splutters as snow gets in his ear and almost his eye. He glares down at Roman, who has what Dean would call the Big Guy's equivalent of a 'shit eating grin' on his face. "We're even," he says matter-of-factly. "Now get off, it's starting to soak through my back.”

      Dean wipes a stinging hand over his face, wiping away the melting snow as much as he can. "Well maybe I don't want to move now," he replies petulantly, shifting his weight and settling on Roman's hips and legs.

      Apparently said man has had enough of his shenanigans for now, since in a quick movement hooks his hands underneath Dean's armpits and lifts the man bodily up and off of him so he can shift to sit up.  

      Dean stands first, and offers Roman a hand, hauling him up and patting him on the shoulder once both of them are vertical. Both of them are practically soaked from head to toe, and Dean's fingers are still stinging, but he's smiling. He watches Roman retrieve his hat, not bothering to put it back on since it's probably useless as wet as it is at this point. The big man pushes his hair out of his face. "Never really had a snowball fight before," he says idly, stuffing his wet beanie into the pocket of his jacket.

      "To be fair, most of 'em end like that one way or another, tackled to the ground and soaked through straight to your underwear," Dean replies, stuffing his hands into his own jacket pockets, squeezing them to help get some feeling that wasn't stinging cold back into them. His lips quirk. "I'm glad I was able to give you the whole experience."

      Roman raises a brow at him as they finally make their way back to the apartment. "Sure was a funny tackle."

      Dean shifts a hand to move it in a flicking away motion before stuffing it back into his pocket. "My entire plan all along I assure you."

      "Kinda ruins it when you explain it though," Roman remarks.

      "I gave you a break since it's your first time, next time I won't go so easy on you," Dean replies, bumping his elbow into Roman's and waggling his eyebrows comically at the big man.

      To Dean's delight, Roman catches the double entendre, and gives Dean one of his deadpan looks.

      "You're gross." He says, before purposefully turning his head away from Dean and walking a little faster.

      Dean gasps, mock affronted. He steps after Roman, "I'll have you know that I ain't _never_ had any complaints."

      "That you've heard," Roman fires back slyly, glancing at his teammate out of the corner of his eye. Dean gasps again, but can't keep from cracking a smile halfway through it. Roman's playing along, so he can't be _that_ mad at him.

      "Want me to prove it?" Dean asks through more obnoxious eyebrow waggling as they start up the stairs at their building.

      Roman makes it up to the first landing first, and only when Dean approaches—only a little disappointed that he didn't get a rise out of Roman immediately—does the man reach over, flick him in the ear and say, leaning in a little and enunciating. "You're _nasty_."

      Dean outright cackles again. A door opens above them, and both he and Roman glance up to see Rollins standing in the doorway, looking only mildly annoyed, which for Rollins, is pretty much his natural state whenever Dean is around. "Only _you_ could cause so much commotion coming up the stairs. I could hear you from the kitchen."

      Dean shrugs, bounding up the last flight two steps at a time with those long legs of his. "To be fair, not easy to come up stairs quietly."

      "You could go slowly," Rollins flatly comments, stepping to the side to let Dean and then Roman in. He blinks. "What the hell happened to you?"

      Dean crouches in the entryway so he can unlace his boots. Rollins must be talking about how soaked they are. "Challenged the Big Man to his first snowball fight and won," he says.

      "Thought it was a tie," Roman replies, shuffling in behind both of them and shutting the door. Rollins moves so both of them can take off their boots, his arms crossed over his chest.

      "Again, a clever ruse." Dean assures, standing and toeing off his boots and leaving them sprawled haphazardly to the side on the tile. Roman however gathers his boots and places them together and carefully out of the way.

      "Doesn't sound too fair if it was his first time," Rollins says.

      For some reason, the way that Rollins says it and the context from his jokes earlier hits Dean right in his funny bone, and he has to stop and lean over with his hands on his thighs so he can laugh it out.

      Rollins brows upturn and his eyes give Dean a quick once over. "It wasn't _that_ funny," he says warily.

      Roman puts a hand on Rollins' shoulder as he passes into the living room. "Don't mind him, he's being _gross_ ," he emphasizes, aiming the last word at Dean over his shoulder.

      Rollins makes a face. "Do I want to know?"

      "Probably not," Roman assures, then quickly disappears down the hall towards his room.

      Dean by this point has reigned in his laughter, and stands up straight, pushing both of hands together up over his head and stretching, groaning as his upper back cracks a few times. Rollins is still standing there, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches Dean. There's this look on his face, his lips just a little bit pursed, his eyebrows just a little bit drawn, and Dean can tell that Rollins is either thinking about saying something, or has already thought about it and is debating whether or not he should say it.

      "You got somethin' to say or are you gonna keep starin'?" Dean decides to initiate whatever Rollins wants to say, just so he can get it over with and can go change out of his sopping wet clothes. At least feeling is starting to come back to his fingers.

      Rollins flinches, like he's been caught, but soldiers on. He curls a loose piece of hair behind his ear before taking a big breath, and Dean is ready for the worst. Probably something about Dean doing something annoying and now they're gonna have a 'conversation' about it, which usually ends up Rollins being mad at him because apparently to him Dean in incapable of taking anything seriously.

      Granted whenever Rollins is around he doesn't take what the man complains about too seriously, since its way too damn easy and way too much fun to poke the bear. Doesn't mean he doesn't know _how_ to take things seriously however.

      "Can I talk to you about something?" The way it comes out of Rollins' mouth is soft, hesitant, and he's still avoiding looking at Dean as he waits for an answer. Dean is immediately on guard.

      He stares at Rollins for a second, waiting for him to elaborate, or to get frustrated with him, or _something_ , but he doesn't, and Dean frowns. He flexes his toes in his slightly damp socks—seriously how did snow always get in his shoes even though he wears _boots_ for Heaven's sake—before coming to the conclusion that he's going to be an adult here and actually be serious. Bummer. He clears his throat. "Sure, yeah, just gotta—" he throws a thumb towards the hallway, "—change."

      Rollins nods. "Right, yeah. I'll be in the—" he gestures to the living room behind him, and without finishing his sentence, turns away.

      Dean sighs through his nose—which twinges, just a little bit—and doesn't answer. Instead, he trails into the hall, still frowning over the fact that he's going to have to have an 'encounter' with Rollins, and the fact that his socks are still damp.

      Once in his room he changes quickly, tossing and kicking his clothes into the floor. He rips off his damp socks and tosses them into the corner. He changes quickly, pleased at the warmth a sweater and some old holey jeans give him. He's got feeling back in his hands again, but they're still cold, and he idly rubs them together as he paces around his room, trying to bide his time before having to go back to Rollins. What in the world could the man want to talk about? Dean tries to rack his brain for anything that could have happened that could provoke a conversation from Rollins that doesn't involve him getting mad at Dean. Then again, just because Rollins had been all weird with asking him if he could talk to Dean, doesn't exactly mean that he _isn’t_ mad at Dean.

      Really though, there isn't anything he can think of that could have set Rollins off. He didn't hog all the hot water recently, he remembered to rinse his dishes—although he didn't put them in the dishwasher so it might be that—and he hasn't been antagonizing Rollins at all really since all that shit that went down with Anderson. Dean scrubs a hand through his hair. Does Rollins wanna talk about that again?

      Dean frowns. _I mean, we could. Don't know what we'd talk about though._

      'Cause really, in all honesty, the day where they talked on the balcony, Dean had thought that Rollins had put that behind him—well as much as he could, you don't really forget things like that in this business, you learn from it and move on but you don't forget it—so what could he possibly want to talk about, with _Dean_?

      He grabs a pack of gum from off his nightstand and idly pops a piece into his mouth, hardly paying any attention to the flavor as he tries valiantly to figure out what Rollins could possible want to talk to him about?

      Unfortunately, he's stalled long enough. He doesn't want Rollins to come looking for him, so he takes a deep breath, shoves the pack of gum into a pocket in his sweats, and slowly and quietly leaves his room. Surprisingly, Roman is coming out of his room at the same time, and Dean nearly runs into him. Roman apologizes under his breath even though it isn't his fault, and Dean doesn't know why, but he reaches to put a hand on Roman's arm. The elder man stops and glances his way with a slightly raised brow. Doesn't escape Dean that the bigger man's eyes are looking just above his head. Dean clears his throat and drops his hand. "Rollins and I are—" he starts in a low voice, then makes a face. How the hell does he explain this? "—gonna have a conversation," he decides to say, shrugging with one shoulder as if it's nothing. "If you wanted anything out of the living room or kitchen, I'd get it now. Dunno how long it's gonna be."

      Roman doesn't answer for a second. "You know what it's about?" He answers, his voice just as low, since there's not a lot of distance between them and where Rollins is sitting in the living room. He's not sitting on the couch, so he can't see them from the hallway, but that doesn't mean he can't hear them if they're too loud.

      Dean rolls his eyes and scoffs quietly under his breath. "I fucking wish."

      Roman shrugs eventually, and turns to go back into his room. "Try to keep it civil," he asks as he shuts the door behind him.

      "'Kay Mom," Dean calls quickly and quietly after him, and he knows Roman heard him since he can hear the Samoan sigh just before the door closes.

      Dean's quick smile is short lived however, when he realizes now he really has to go face Rollins now, and for some reason, he's stopped a potential interruption or stop to the conversation. He doesn't know why he warned Roman, but he has, and now he has to live with it.

 

 

***

      Seth sighs, rubbing his temples with one hand. Why had he suggested this in the first place? Really, it's Reigns' fault, making him talk about Ambrose and his lack of family and holiday bullshit. He frowns at himself. Ok, maybe it wasn't _all_ Reigns' fault, but truthfully, it felt like both he and Ambrose had forgotten all about the little stint they had at the grocery store after what happened with the whole Anderson Incident, and in retrospect, Seth is perfectly content to let sleeping dogs lie.

      The longer time it takes for Ambrose to come back from changing, the more he's inclined towards wanting to call this whole thing off. He doesn't wanna talk, wants to be able to move on from this, but _damn_ Reigns and his stupid fucking guilt trip—probably wasn't even a guilt trip but him being genuinely concerned and caring about their teammate's well being—making him feel bad.

_Just say what you need to say and get it the hell over with_

      His attention is brought back, when he hears doors closing, then quiet murmuring in the hall. He can't hear what's being said, but he has half a mind to get up and creep towards the hall so he can. Ambrose and Reigns are obviously talking to one another, but why the soft voices? Seth makes a face. Probably talking about him. Another door closes, and Seth turns his head around, and Ambrose is standing there in the mouth of the hallway, looking a little rumpled in his too-big-for-him comfortable clothing.

      “Hey,” Seth says out of reflex, and kinda cringes at himself. Smooth Rollins, real smooth.

      “Hey,” Ambrose replies flatly.

      Seth throws him an attempt at a friendly smile for about a half second and gestures at the chair Ambrose likes the most. “Sit?” He says.

      Ambrose doesn't reply, but does as he's asked, a little disgruntled frown pinching his mouth as he approaches the loveseat and sits down on it, folding his legs underneath him as he does. He faces Seth, and when the half blonde man doesn't say anything—more from a lack of wanting to start this than anything—he says, "Well?" expectantly.

      Seth sighs through his nose and closes his eyes for a second, mentally preparing himself. When he opens them again, Ambrose is still staring at him, that little frown still on his face. "I'm sorry," Seth suddenly blurts.

      Ambrose's face doesn't change much except for his brows furrowing and several blinks aimed Seth's way. "What?" He asks, when Seth doesn't elaborate.

      Despite his attempts at creating a semi companionable atmosphere for this conversation, Seth's obviously created the opposite, since he can practically _feel_ the tension bearing down on him. Seth rubs a hand over his jeans, resisting the urge to fidget, and tries again. "I'm sorry," he says. "For being an ass earlier."

      More blinks and furrowed brows are aimed his way, and Ambrose's lips pull tight. "What's your game?" He asks.

      An immediate flare of anger rises in Seth, and he tries his best to push it down. "There's no _game_ ," he replies tightly. "I'm just trying to apologize."

      "You've never apologized for being an ass to me before," Ambrose comments flippantly, lounging back in his chair and eyeing Seth rather boredly now, like he's just waiting for the conversation to end and not taking any of it to heart.

      It makes another flush of anger blaze through Seth, and he can't quite keep it out of his voice when he says, "Well I was being particularly ass-ish so I'm trying to say, 'I'm sorry' to you."

      "Care to tell me what you're apologizing for in particular?" Ambrose says lightly, still leaning back casually as if he's written off this entire thing.

      Seth makes a face. He didn't want to talk about it. He figured Ambrose would know what he's talking about and take the fucking apology so they could move on from this and go back to being at each other's throats eighty percent of the time. Seth glances up at Ambrose again and he's drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair and looking at Seth expectantly now. Seth sighs through his nose because Ambrose knows what he's doing. An apology doesn't mean anything unless you verbally state what the reason for the apology is for in the first place. So Seth takes a moment to push down his frustration and he tries to give Ambrose a genuine look and keep his voice as truthful as he can. "I'm sorry for earlier, when we were talking about the holidays. I honestly forgot about..." he hesitates for a moment, but forges on, "What you told me at the grocery store. I apologize about how I acted there too. It just never occurred to me that maybe there are people who never had a good holiday experience in their life....or never really had any experiences to begin with."

      "You don't have to apologize for something you didn't know," Ambrose replies quickly but softly, if not a bit wary, like he didn't actually expect Seth to respond the way he is.

      Seth shakes his head. "Yeah, but I was annoyed with you, and I kept pushing when I should have left it alone. I made you talk about something that obviously makes you uncomfortable and that wasn't cool of me."

      Ambrose shrugs a single shoulder, avoiding looking at Seth now. "I dunno. Wouldn't've happened if I'd just talked about it," he scratches his head, "Not your fault."

      He snaps at his gum several times, and Seth watches him do it. "Not _your_ fault either then," Seth says.

      Ambrose looks at him. He then cracks a familiar little smirk. "Cold day in hell when _you_ apologize," he says almost to himself, then blows a little bubble with his gum. It doesn't get very big.

      For some reason, what comes out of Seth’s mouth next, comes out without his permission. "You are literally almost _always_ chewing gum. I don't think I've ever met a person who chews as much gum as you.”

      Ambrose seems unperturbed, and simply snaps his gum at Seth, a rather bland look on his face now. "I'm not the only person on this earth who chews gum, Rollins," he points out.

      And that is _so_ not Seth's point. "The only times I ever see you _not_ chewing gum is if you're eating or on missions, other than that there are only a few scant times I've ever seen you without a piece of gum in your mouth."

      "Does it matter?" Ambrose frowns, a little knot forming in between his brows.

      "Is there a particular reason why?" Seth asks, genuinely curious. Sure, even he enjoys gum on occasion, but at the rate Ambrose seems to chew through it—pun not intended—there must be _some_ reason for it.

      For a long moment, Ambrose doesn't answer, just stares at Seth while still carefully chewing on his gum, that little knot still pressed in between his eyebrows. Seth feels bad suddenly, because he’s doing it again. He _just_ apologized to Ambrose because he had been pushy about answers, and now he’s fucking doing it _again_. He tries to recant. “Shit, I’m sorry, I just—”

      "Used to smoke," Ambrose interrupts, seeming now a little subconscious, not chewing his gum as fervently as he usually does. He glances away from Seth for a second, like he doesn't want to see how the half blonde reacts to the admission. "Not a good habit for anyone, but ‘specially someone with our job," he shrugs, like he's trying to play it all off like it's no big deal, but Seth knows how much the other man doesn't like to talk about things like this.

      Despite that fact, Seth _is_ curious, and Ambrose is answering now, so he continues down that path of questions. The half blonde figures after the little talk they just had, if Ambrose doesn’t want to answer, he won’t. Seth won’t push this time if he doesn’t. "So it's nicotine gum?" He asks, a little worried now. That much nicotine gum can't really help all that much, or be that good for you in the first place now that he thinks about it.

      "Nope." Ambrose blows a small bubble then. It pops and Ambrose unceremoniously brings it back into his mouth. Seth watches him do it again, and it takes the younger man a few seconds to realize what he's doing and tear his gaze away to meet Ambrose's eyes.

      "So, then why the gum?" Seth asks.

      Ambrose sighs, and he reaches to scratch at one of his sideburns, making a face. "It's not..." he starts, then seems to think better of it, or is working through a better way to explain, and it just makes his face scrunch up a little more. "It wasn't really the nicotine that was the thing," he says, shrugging. "More like the act of it. It was something to do with my hands, something to do with my mouth. Kept me quiet and still."

      The gum must not work too well, Seth thinks, considering that the man still talks too much and is constantly fidgeting with everything. He's even picking at a piece of loose denim on his jeans as he speaks, looking at it instead of Seth.

      "So you traded one habit for another?" Seth asks, finding this actually a lot more mundane than he thought, which is frankly...well disappointing, considering who it is that he's talking to.

      Ambrose shrugs again, continuing to pick at the little fringe of fabric. "Kind of? Doctor says it'd help with focus too?" He eventually says, not sounding even really that sure with his own answer. "At least at first. Then it just turned out better cause smoking and meds don't mix."

      That little tidbit of information catches Seth's attention. Medication? Well that's certainly interesting. So Ambrose chews gum because he used to smoke, and needed to turn his bad habit brought on by having a hard time staying quiet, still, and focused, into a better habit. However, it looks like the gum didn't work for that reason in the long run, but it actually sort of did because he can't smoke with the medication he probably takes for said issues with staying quiet, still, and focused.

      Ambrose continues to stare down at his leg, wrapping the little string tightly around his index finger, letting the skin change color a little bit, before unwrapping it and starting the process all over again. He can obviously sense Seth’s gaze, with how tense his shoulders are and the fact he’s not even chewing his gum anymore. Is he embarrassed now that Seth has made mention of it? Is he waiting for Seth’s reaction?

      “I _guess_ the popping noises _are_ better than smoking would be,” Seth says suddenly, theatrically, and with a put upon sigh as he leans back in his chair. Seth watches in his peripherals, and resists the urge to laugh.

      Ambrose is kind of frozen for a few seconds, before he looks up at Seth, the little knot in his brows more confused than disgruntled. It takes him a few more seconds of looking at Seth before a smirk cracks his lips, and he very blatantly and loudly snaps his gum once. It practically sounds like a whip crack, and when Ambrose shifts the gum back so he can talk, he says, “You sure ‘bout that?”

      Seth shifts so he’s sitting more or less straight instead of pretend lounging, and rolls his eyes. “Better than you stinking up the house and having shitty lungs. I’d have to pick up even _more_ flack from you,” He replies with a tease, pressing his elbow into the arm of the chair and resting his cheek against his hand.

      “Shut the fuck up,” Ambrose replies, with hardly any real heat behind it.

      It doesn’t escape Seth’s notice that Ambrose goes back to chewing his gum.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been busy busy busy and I'm gonna be real here this whole chapter was written around the snowball scene and the gum scene and I'm not ashamed of that fact.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot more working out and a lot less plot in this chapter than I originally intended and I apologize for that lol. I hope you enjoy this chapter regardless!

***

      While running on a treadmill is definitely not his favorite way of running, trying to do so in chilly weather with snow and ice on the ground, is definitely worse. At least they have the TVs working in this gym, otherwise he might have been bored out of his fucking mind. Dean watches idly as he runs, eyes flicking from one tv to another, not really focusing too much on one in particular. It's just nice to have something to focus on besides the burn of his thighs and lungs as he reaches the more strenuous part of his run program. Several TVs are playing different sports broadcasts, another one is playing some movie that Dean came into the middle of so he doesn't really care about it, and there's at least one running some sort of news station. There's a guy in a boring suit and tie pointing out that the cold front they've been experiencing is going to continue on strong and that they should be expecting more snow soon.

      Thankfully the city had switched to its winter gears, and even with the strong and continuous snowfall, the city had more or less gone back to normal.

      Dean pants, pushing through the harder program, focusing on a baseball game so that the stronger burning in his thighs isn't as prevalent in his mind. It takes several minutes, but when the program finally shifts down to prepare for the cool down, Dean sighs in relief, smiling just a little bit proudly at himself for not grabbing any of the handrails to stabilize himself or take some of the pressure off. With quick movements, he reaches up to pluck the backwards ball cap off his head, push his hair back out of his face, and wipe the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. He plops his hat back on, securing it snugly on his head so it won't fly off as he finishes his run.

      Finally, the program shifts to a cool down, and Dean can finally slow down to a walk, the burn in his quads immediately lessening. He breathes deeply, his hands on his hips as the treadmill steadily gets slower and slower. As it's about to turn off, Dean stops walking, and allows his body to move to the end of the treadmill before hopping off.

      Immediately he feels like he's still moving even though he's not, a weird sensation he always gets when he runs on a treadmill. His thighs are throbbing now, and it's not an unpleasant sensation, but Dean rubs at them anyways, leaning down to touch his toes and stretch everything else out. Once he finishes his stretches he twists, cracking his back in a few odd places. Without much fanfare, he decides he's done working out for right now, unable to really focus or pull upon any physical energy to do any more than his run. He'll make up for it later, and it's not like he's hurting for a workout at all. Dean flexes his core. Naw, he's still good. So he meanders back towards the men's locker room, intent on getting a shower and then getting the hell back out of there.

      "I need a drink," he mumbles to himself as he places his hat in the locker on top of his bag. He reaches for his tank top and shucks it off, his shorts, underwear, shoes and socks following quickly afterwards. He shoves them all in the locker without a care, slamming it shut and turning on his heels, completely naked as he steps towards the showers. He gets a look or two from some of the others in the locker room, but he hardly notices or cares. He's never been one for modesty really and the year in NXT basically solidified his lack of embarrassment or care about being naked in a locker room setting. He's literally just going to take a shower which is less than twenty five feet away from where they are. The other guys can deal.

      Dean grabs a clean towel and a small bar of soap from the stacks provided outside the door of the showers, still not even bothering to wrap the towel around his waist, and approaches the closest open shower. He hangs the towel up on a hook so it wont get wet and turns the spray on as hot as it will go without melting his skin off. That's one thing he loves about this building. It never runs out of hot water. If he, Rollins, or Roman ever need to shower in the same morning, whoever is first has to remember not to be an asshole and use too much hot water to start with. It's usually Roman so that doesn't happen too often thankfully. The second needs to cut his shower short so they don't use what's _left_ of the hot water—usually Dean's position—so that the third—Rollins—doesn't bitch about the water turning cold two minutes after he starts his shower. At the WWE building, Dean could probably shower for two hours and the water would never stop being as nearly skin meltingly hot as it is right now. It soothes his thighs and his shoulders, and he rolls them along with his neck as he relaxes under the spray.

      Even though he doesn't have to worry about using up all the hot water, he doesn't want to stay in here for too long. First of all he's hungry as shit, and needs to grab something from one of the cafeterias.

      With quick movements, he scrubs himself over with the soap, wrinkling his nose and sniffing at the hospital-like smell. It's the same stuff they used in NXT, and who'd've thought he'd forget that smell after only a couple of months?

      While he scrubs, his minds starts to wander, as it is often wont to do. He finds it unfortunately, wandering to the thought of what Rollins had talked about what seemed like a lifetime ago but in reality wasn't that long ago at all: Holiday Stuff. Actual surprising real apology from Rollins notwithstanding, Dean's more distracted by what he had mentioned about what he wanted to do for Christmas, not the assholish way he talked to Dean about it.

      Visiting family. What must that be like? Sure, there are people who don't get along with their families or are too busy with their own lives to even consider visiting family for Christmas, but Dean is stuck with two teammates who apparently both have great relationships with their families and _want_ to spend time with them. Dean makes a face, his washing becoming more absent minded the longer he thinks.

      He thinks about his mom for the first time in a very long time. When was the last time he even talked to her, let alone saw her? He does a quick calculation in his head and frowns. It's been at least five years since he talked to her, and he really can't remember when exactly it's been since he's seen her.

      It's not like it makes him sad. It's not like it's because he's angry with her anymore. He's past that now, better off really. It's not like she was there much for anything anyways. She never really cared what he did as long as it didn’t get him into trouble. Once he really started to break into the Espionage Field it was like he didn't really exist to her anymore. Other people were taking care of him so she didn't have to. Not like she really did that much when he lived with her in the first place. Dean sighs. She kept him alive and around just enough so that she could cash in on the money that the government gave her to help them both live and use most of it for herself. He doesn't miss her. Doesn't think he ever will if he lives to be a hundred years old. He's so much better than she'll ever be.

      Dean tries to shake his head of thoughts of his mother, tries to bring himself back around to thoughts of his teammates. He tries to think about what their families must be like. He knows that Roman has a mother and a father—a little twinge of guilt pricks at his chest for a millisecond as he remembers _why_ he knows that—who apparently know about his job, which makes the whole, 'Going home for the Holidays and telling your parents what you've been up to' a lot easier when he doesn't have to lie through his teeth about what kind of work he's been doing.

      He's not a total idiot, he's seen the TV show specials, he's had friends and acquaintances, and he's heard enough bitching and moaning from people over the years to know about what families talk about at these sort of things. 'How have you been doing? Are you eating well? How has work been? Are you bringing anyone over for the Holidays? When are you going to settle down and have kids and blah blah blah?'

      Dean grimaces, glad he doesn't have to deal with all that shit ever. Personally he think he'd go insane in that kind of holiday setting.  People—even family members—trying to pry into his business like that? Not his cup of coffee.

      Roman had also said that he has a lot of brothers and cousins, which ain't that surprising really.

      Samoan and having family who knows about the business? More than likely that he comes from a long line of people who've worked in the field of Espionage. Wouldn't put it past Roman to have some family who are in Agent Status or even in NXT.

      Rollins on the other hand is a mystery. Dean knows the guy has a mom—and well everyone pretty much does, right?—and that he talks to her and apparently has a good enough relationship with her to make phone calls and want to visit her. For some reason Dean's brain tries to imagine what she might look like but all he gets is an angry Rollins with no beard and tits and it makes a half amused half disgusted noise tumble out of his mouth.

      Ok, enough of that for now. He should probably wash his hair. Without much thought and the fact that he doesn't have any shampoo on hand, the tawny haired man just scrubs the small bar of soap in his hands until he gets enough lather to smear and run through his hair.

 

      He lets himself enjoy the feeling of the soap being rinsed from his body, closing his eyes and just letting himself stand underneath the spray, clearing his mind of anything and everything, allowing himself to exist in the present physical plane. He breathes deeply, the tension melting from his form through the it and the water, which is still just as hot, even though now he doesn't know how long he's been standing there. With a final shake of his head and a deep sigh, Dean suddenly reaches for the shower handle and switches the thing off in one quick flick of his wrist. If he's not too careful, he'll stay in here for way too fucking long, and he's still hungry as shit.

      So he removes himself finally, reaching for his hung up towel and immediately smothering his face, scrubbing and pushing his hair out of his face before rubbing the towel quickly over the rest of his body, wanting to get dry as fast as possible. Once he steps back into the locker room, there's a small chorus of groans, and someone says, "C'mon man!"

      Dean doesn't even look at them as he approaches his locker, idly running the towel through his hair now so that it dries faster. "You're the one who's looking," he replies matter-of-factly , and it makes a small triumphant smirk cross his lips when no one happens to say anything else to him.

      Only when he opens his locker, does he remember that he didn't bring any clean clothes with him. He lips purse crooked for a second, but to hell with it, it's not like he's gonna spend the rest of the day in those close. So he redresses in his workout clothes, only frowning at the mildly damp sensation of putting his socks and his tank top back on so soon after working out.

 

      The cafeteria is thankfully only a few hallways away from the gym, nearly across from the pool area, and Dean’s nose crinkles at the faint chlorine smell as he passes by. Who the fuck even thought about that planning? Granted, if it were any place other than WWE, it would probably smell like unwashed swim trunks across the entire floor, so in retrospect it probably isn’t that bad. Thank God he picked the floor with the good cafeterias. Too bad it’s fucking busy.

      He sighs, letting his lips trill with it, and heads to start perusing what they have on the menu for today. He frowns at all of the buffet-like things, not wanting anything he’s going to have to actually sit down and wait for, since the line he’s going to have to wait in is already long enough as it is.

      Thankfully, he spies some pre-made stuff and mutters a, “Sweet,” under his breath before investigating what they have. He spied pre-made wrapped up sandwiches and mumbles, “Fuck yeah,” before grabbing two without really seeing what’s in them. They didn’t look like they would be too exotic considering that they’re just pre-made sandwiches. Besides, even if they do have some weird shit on them, Dean’s probably had worse. Really pretty damn hard to go wrong with sandwiches. He scoots into line before it gets any longer, and since he’s _still_ just as hungry, he rips open one of the sandwiches, careful not to rip the price tag on the side. He starts to eat it, ignoring the looks he gets from some of the workers behind the food prep line as well as some of the other people waiting to pay. He ignores them in favor of eating. Roast beef, that’s not too bad at all.

      He happily eats the one sandwich as he shuffles forward in line, and as he approaches a fruit display, he cradles the second sandwich in his elbow so he can grab an apple. There are drinks there too, and he spies a bottle of orange juice—no pulp because pulp is gross—and grabs that too, cradling the apple in the crook of his arm too. He finally finishes off the first sandwich and opens the juice, practically downing it all on one go and sighing loudly when he’s finished, causing more pissed off stares that he seriously doesn’t care about.

      Finally he makes it to the register, and ignores the annoyed look of the cashier in favor of plopping everything down on the counter, empty bottle and sandwich wrapper included. The cashier makes a face at him, but he just reflexively smiles back at them. They sigh and start ringing up the items, and Dean swings his bag around so that he can get his wallet out of it. The cashier says the total and Dean grabs twenty five—far more than everything had cost—and hands it over. “Keep the change,” he says, and smiles at the shocked look of the cashier, who tries to say something, but Dean simply collects his things—empty bottle and wrapper once again included—sticks the apple in his mouth, and walks out of the line. Once free, he tosses his trash into a garbage bin as he passes it and slips his bag around again to shove the second sandwich in it. He pulls the apple from his mouth, taking a bite out of it as he does, and heads for the door.

      He pushes out of the cafeteria, apple still in hand, and walks right into a sentient stack of papers. It must have been that since as it happens, papers—and his apple—fall to the ground, spreading across the floor at his feet. It takes him a second to realize that it is _not_ in fact a sentient stack of papers, but a woman, who is currently on the floor, cursing and scrambling to pick up the pieces of paper that are closest to a cup of coffee which is now seeping across the tile in a rather alarming rate. "Sorry," he says quickly out of reflex, and thinks fast. "I'll go get something to wipe it up."

      He turns directly back into the cafeteria , walking quickly towards the workers there. He ignores the line of people waiting to pay who give him dirty looks as he goes up to the cashier. "There's been a spill outside, can I get a bunch of paper towels?"

      The cashier blinks at him, still probably a little caught off guard from a couple of minutes ago, but Dean in unperturbed. He gives them a raised brow, as if to say, 'I ain't getting any younger and that mess outside ain't getting any cleaner with you just standing there not doing anything about it.'

      Finally, they snap out of it and call over their shoulder. "Can I get some paper towels please? There's been a spill!"

      Dean steps out of the way of the line, offering a fake, 'doesn't reach his eyes' smile to the disgruntled people who are waiting.

      It takes about a minute or two, but then a smaller worker comes out of the back of the kitchen with an armload of paper towels, approaching Dean and offering them to him. "I hope this is enough," she says, and Dean takes them with a nod.

      "Should be great, thank you,” he says quickly.

      She doesn't get to answer—either that or Dean doesn't hear it—since the Shield member turns and jogs out of the cafeteria, careful as he pushes open the door this time.

      The woman he knocked over is still on the ground, stacking up papers and inspecting some of them for coffee damage. She looks up at the sound of the cafeteria door, and she offers a weak smile. "I honestly thought you weren't coming back," she half jokes. She's inched away from the spill, which is still spreading out, but at much less of an alarming rate than it was before Dean had ventured to get paper towels. Speaking of which.

      "They took forever to get these in there," he replies, and steps to the spill, dropping most of the pile in his arms directly onto the mess. Immediately, the towels start to soak up the mess, and the coffee stops spreading across the floor. There are a few moments of silence intermittent with paper rustling where Dean just stares at the coffee being absorbed by the paper towel, his focus still turned inwards after his run and subsequent shower.

      "Agent...Ambrose, right?" The blonde suddenly asks, offering a smile even though she's still trying to desperately pick up and reorganize the files Dean had knocked right out of her hands.

      Dean stops to blink at her for a few seconds, then coughs and nods, reaching down to grab some of the other papers that flew a little further away from her. "Uh, yeah," he confirms verbally, shuffling back and handing over the retrieved papers. "You uh, remember that?"

      "Hm?" She looks up, her copper eyes wide. She then laughs lightly. "Sorry, I don't see new faces up at Mr. Helmsley's office very often, and you three were kind of hard to miss," she jokes, arranging all of the files into a stack again.

      Her smile drops however, at the poorly mopped up coffee. "Was that for Triple H?" Dean asks, eyeing the coffee slowly being soaked up by the pile of paper towels pushed on it. She gives a quick little half smile that Dean reads as, 'Unfortunately yes'. He makes a face too. "You wouldn't've happened to get that in the building, would you?"

      Her smile is slightly bigger. "Unfortunately no," she replies.

      Dean's face sours even more, and he absently plucks his hat off his head, pushes a hand through his hair and plops the hat back down. "Sorry," he offers again, even though it feels like it doesn't mean much.

      She sighs and shrugs, reaching over to mop up the coffee better. "That's what I get for trying to multitask," she rolls her eyes good-naturedly, and Dean suddenly crouches to help with the mopping up.

      "You gonna get in trouble?" Dean asks.

      "Well, he'll be grumpy, but I'll just let him know one of his Agents caused a little accident," she jokes, smiling at him and balling up the already soaked paper towels.

      "Way to throw me under the bus," Dean replies flatly, then internally cringes to himself. He doesn't really know this girl, so what if she takes it badly—

      She just laughs. "With my luck he'll just send me out for more. Maybe then I'll be able to get there and back without getting mowed over."

      Dean cracks a smirk. "I'd hardly call it, 'mowed over', more like 'I bumped into a stack of papers walking down the hallway and there turned out to be a person underneath there.'"

      She snorts and rolls her eyes at him, the floor as mopped up at it can be. She wads up all her used paper towel and stands, walking over to toss it into the trash bin right outside the cafeteria door, then dusts off her pants. Dean's eyes flick to her bent over form before flicking back to the floor, wiping the last of the coffee away a little harder than he probably needs to. He stands once she walks back, and he tosses the paper away from where he's standing. The apple had fallen not far from the coffee, and he grabs it, tossing it over as well. They both land right in the garbage, and the blonde woman just huffs, her hands on her hips. "Show off," she jokes.

      Dean just shrugs and leans down to pick up the stack of papers and files, offering them to her. She carefully takes them out of his arms. "You sure you're not going to get in trouble?" He asks, a flash of Triple H's stubborn and often intense looking face coming to mind.

      She shakes her head. "He'll understand. Like I said, if he really wants coffee he'll just send me out for more."

      Dean nods, shifting and wishing his mesh shorts had pockets he could stuff his hands into. He adjusts his bag on his back. "That's good. Sorry again."

      She shrugs. "Thanks for sticking around to help Agent Ambrose," she nods back, shifting the papers so she can hold them easier and more securely.

      "Dean," said man replies. "You can call me Dean."

      She smiles with her teeth now, and Dean notes that they are very white and very straight. She offers a hand, and Dean reaches for it and shakes quickly before the papers fall again. "I'm Renee."

      Renee. Dean commits it to memory. "You need help with those?" he asks, gesturing to the papers.

      Renee shakes her head, shifting so one elbow holds the papers closer to her chest so she can move a piece of hair out of her eyes. "Like I said, as long as I avoid getting knocked over again, I should be fine."

      Dean nods, and the air gets a little tense and a little awkward. Renee obviously looks as though she wants to leave, and Dean should probably let her go, end the conversation and get back to what he was doing. He still feels bad though, knowing she still might get chewed out by Triple H even though she assures she's going to be fine. "You mind if I pay you back for that coffee sometime?" He offers after the terse silence.

      Renee seems taken aback for his suggestion, her brown eyes wide, and Dean almost takes it back before she smiles, and her eyes crinkle as she does. "It was Mr. Helmsley's money."

      "For that too, then," He says, shrugging, looking down and away. He drums a thumb against the side of his thigh.

      Renee seems to think for a second, before nodding. "Alright. I'll get in touch, let you know when I'm free,"

      Dean's head snaps up. "How're you gonna—"

      She laughs brightly at his confusion. "I have all your info in the database, remember?"

      Dean swallows. "Right."

      Renee offers him another smile, looking pleasant and happy to be here, despite the fact that Dean had probably ruined her day. "I'm sorry," she says suddenly, "But I have to get going, Triple H is expecting me back."

      Dean perks up. "You call him that too?"

      Her cheeks pink and she licks her lips, sheepish. "Don’t rat me out, ok?"

      Dean displays his first two fingers. "Scouts honor."

      "Thanks," she responds with a nervous chuckle. "It was nice seeing you again Dean, but I _really_ have to go."

      Dean gestures away. "Don't let me keep you."

      She nods and starts down the hallway. "I'll be seeing you soon!" She waves, and Dean almost steps after her when he sees the papers shift dangerously in her grasp. She must notice that he notices, and she snickers. "I got it, I _promise_."

      Dean watches her walk away until she turns the corner and is out of his sight. He watches a little bit longer, before gripping his bag straps with both hands, turning on his heels and walking in the complete opposite direction.

 

***

      Punk's eyebrows shoot up. "A vacation," he confirms slowly, like he's verbally trying to decide whether or not Seth is actually serious.

      Seth swallows and nods. "Yes, Sir."

      Punk stares at him for another few seconds, probably debating again whether or not this is a joke. He seems to find the answer he needs, since he sighs and sets his pen down, using his newly freed hand to pinch and rub over the bridge of his nose. "You want to ask for three days off: Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and the day afterwards.....less than a month before the actual days....and during your trial period," he says, as if saying it out loud himself will make it any more real or make any more sense to him.

      Seth's not unaware to how bad it sounds, so he nods anyway. "Yes, Sir."

      Punk huffs out a heavy sigh, like he was afraid that was going to be Seth's answer. The man removes his hand from his face and levels Seth with a look, but Seth will not be deterred. Whether or not he's going to get the time off is really irrelevant at this point. Yes, he understands that he's asking for a hell of a lot, but if he doesn't even _try_ , then he won't get anything regardless. He stares back at Punk, his own gaze just as unwavering as his boss'. "You know there's a lot of people this has to go through before you even get a _chance_ of having it approved," the older man says, leaning forward, trying to emphasise his point. Seth nods. "I can't guarantee that it's gonna even get that far," Punk tries again, attempting to convey to Seth that this is more than likely a one in a million shot he's trying to take here.

      Seth just nods again. "I understand, but if I don't even try It won't happen regardless."

      Punk blinks at him for a few seconds before leaning back suddenly, sighing again. After a few more seconds, he speaks. "Alright Seth, I'll put it in."

      Seth's face creaks a small smile. "Thank you, Sir."

      Punk picks up his pen again and points it at Seth, a single brow raised. “Don’t ever tell anyone I’ve never done anything for you.”

      Seth’s smile broadens. “You’re the best, Boss.”

      Punk simply rolls his eyes. “I know. Now if there’s nothing else, skedaddle, I got paperwork I have to finish.”

      “Thought you hated paperwork,” Seth teases, standing regardless.

      “I do,” Punk concedes, “But some people have to be adults and deal with it when things don’t go our way,” he adds, eyeing Seth.

      The half blonde chuckles. He knows Punk is just teasing him back, but he hears the half hidden message in the joke and nods. “That sucks,” he jokes back, and Punk just waves him away with another good-natured roll of the eyes.

      “Go on, get! Before I change my mind about putting your request in.”

      Seth’s hands raise in front of him in mock surrender as he backs away towards the door. “I got it, I got it. I’m gone.”

 

      Considering the fact that he’s actually at the WWE building for something other than mission briefing for the first time in a long time, Seth had decided to take the opportunity to bring his workout gear with him, and work on some of his strength training.

      A bored looking gym trainer perks up and readily agrees when Seth asks him to spot for him as he works on his presses and his dead lift. He sticks one headphone in his ear and blasts his music from his phone, dropping it into his bag. He goes through a series of stretches and warm ups with the trainer so he doesn’t hurt himself just because he’s a little impatient and maybe a little bit anxious about his vacation request. Nothing a little stress workout won’t fix, right?

      Unfortunately for him, halfway through his second set of clean and presses, he hears a dreaded, ‘Incoming Call’ from a robotic voice in his headphones. Seth sighs deeply, his focus pretty much nixed as the voice continues to tell him that he’s got an incoming call. The half blonde apologizes to the trainer, who thankfully waves him off and takes the heavy barbell from his grasp. Seth biceps are burning and throbbing to his heart beat as he rifles through his bag, trying to find his phone which couldn’t have possibly moved that far since he put it in there not half an hour ago. Thankfully he finds it before he misses the call, and sees that it’s Punk’s number. A little concerned since he hadn’t seen his Mentor more than an hour ago, Seth answers.

      "I don't know what kind of Satan magic you pulled out of your ass to have this happen but _Hunter Hearst Helmsley_ **_himself_ ** approved your vacation request," is the first thing out of Punk's mouth the second Seth swipes 'accept' on the phone call and places said phone to his ear. He doesn't even get to say, 'Hello,' first.

      It takes Seth a few seconds to comprehend what Punk had actually said, but when he does, Seth smiles. "Really? That quickly?" He asks, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. He brushes a sweaty piece of his hair out of his eye sight as he starts to pace lightly back and forth.

      "Yes," Punk replies. "Like I said, I don't know what kind of voodoo you pulled and honestly I don't think I really _do_ want to know."

      Seth is honestly as lost as Punk is, and he tells his Mentor so. "You've got me there, really."

      Punk sighs. "Alright," there's some silence on his end for a few seconds, before he speaks again. "He also said he wants to talk to you in person about it."

      Seth blinks, the grip on his phone tightening. "He wants to talk to me about it?" He clarifies, and the responding, 'mmmhm' from Punk doesn't make the grip on his phone any less tight. He starts to pace. "Did he particularly state any reason as to why?" He asks, noticing a little too late that his tone gets higher and higher the longer the sentence goes on.

      Seth hears noise on Punk's end, rustling of papers and the man shifting in his chair—Seth must be on speaker phone—before he replies. "You know Hunter, he's got his own reasons for everything. I figure everything will be fine as long as you don't get on his bad side."

      "Is there an easy way to avoid getting on his bad side?"

      Punk snorts. "Smile, do what he says and say, 'Yes, Sir'."

      "That shouldn't be _too_ hard," Seth jokes, trying to steer the mood of the conversation more to a positive one. "That's probably about at least twenty five percent of my job."

      "Don't know if smiling is part of that percentage," Punk wonders aloud, playing with the joke. "Don't know how much the bosses would like their super tough bad ass agents to be all smiley and pleasant."

      "Oh I don't know," Seth replies. "It'd make good PR. Good for a morale boost."

      The blonde agent can practically _hear_ Punk rolling his eyes from all those floors above him. "If you keep talking like that he'll love you," he says, probably only half joking this time.

      “Well that can’t necessarily be a _bad_ thing, can it?”

      “Depends on whether or not you want to be called a brown-noser for the rest of your career,” Punk deadpans, and it makes Seth laugh.

      “Gross, you’re right. No thanks.”

      “Once again my infinite wisdom comes to save you,” Punk replies. A few seconds of paper rustling and he speaks again. “I’d head up there now, he seemed keen on talking to you as soon as possible.”

      Seth blinks. Oh, right, that’s actually happening and they're not just having a laugh. He chuckles wryly, and runs his free hand over his mouth and beard. “I probably should go then.”

      “Good luck,” Punk says, and it’s probably the most serious and heartfelt thing he’s said in this entire phone call, and Seth can feel it. It makes him smile, and remember that there are in fact people here who are rooting for him, who believe in him. Punk then ruins it. “I don’t ever want to know what you’ve done to achieve this, I would like to maintain plausible deniability for this whole thing.”

      Seth laughs sharply through his nose. “You got it.”

      “Goodbye, Seth,” Punk says.

      “Bye Boss,” Seth replies. The line goes dead, but Seth keeps the phone to his ear for a few long seconds. He heaves a sigh and turns to the trainer, who is looking very much like he’s trying to hard to look like he wasn’t listening to Seth’s conversation. The Agent decides that it’s not worth it to comment, and his mouth quirks up ruefully. “Sorry, I gotta cut this short. I have somewhere I need to be.”

      “Big man upstairs?” The trainer asks.

      Seth nods. “Big man upstairs.”

 

      It takes maybe half an hour for Seth to quickly shower and redress in thankfully clean clothes and get through clearance for Mr. Helmsley’s office. He tries not to fidget and smooth down his clothing, taking deep measured breaths through his nose and out through his mouth to distract himself.  The elevator stops, and Seth swallows, as prepared as he’s going to be for this.

      When he steps out of the elevator, the blonde secretary from before stops typing away at her keyboard and looks up. It takes her a second of looking at him, but after those few seconds, a bright almost amused smile takes over her face. Seth smiles reflexively back, not so sure why his presence seems to have caused the smile in the first place. She gently plucks a piece of hair out of her vision as he approaches, and it feels a little more strange with it just being him there.

      "Now I wonder if I'm going to see Agent Reigns today too," she jokes, and Seth blinks at her, his lips pulling tight.

      "I'm sorry?" He asks, genuinely sorry and confused for not getting her joke.

      The woman's eyes widen and her mouth opens in a little, 'O'. Her cheeks then pink and she looks down at her hands running her thumbs over the tops of her painted nails a couple of times. "Sorry, seeing you struck me as funny since Dean already ran into me today." She looks up at him, trying to play her embarrassment off with a chuckle. "Did you know jokes are only funny if everyone understands them?"

      Seth nods slowly at her. It doesn't escape him at all that she called Ambrose by his first name. "It's alright," he says. "No harm done."

      There's still a pink flush across her cheeks and she looks away, escaping having to look at Seth in favor of looking back at her computer screen. "So, I assume you're Mr. Helmsley's four o'clock?"

      Seth shrugs. "I honestly couldn't tell you. Punk just said he wanted to see me."

      The half blonde Agent notices her roll her eyes as if to say, 'How typical,' without saying it, and it makes Seth chuckle once through his nose. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the counter. "So—" Seth starts, then cuts himself off, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I don't remember if I ever got your name."

      She manages to drag her eyes back from the computer to look at him, her cheeks still pink. "Oh, I'm sorry, It's Renee," she says, offering her hand.

      Seth takes it and shakes it once. "Nice to meet you again Renee," he says politely. "Seth Rollins."

      Renee nods, then goes to type something. "You were saying—?" She trails off, leading Seth to continue with what he was going to say.

      "Right," he replies. "You said you ran into Ambrose?"

      Her eyes flick back to him for a second. She huffs a sharp laugh out of her nose. " _He_ ran into _me_. Literally."

      A chuckle bursts out of Seth. "Do I want to know how that happened?"

      Renee shakes her head like she still can't believe what had happened. "I was walking down the hallway by one of the cafeterias—you know, the one by the gym that has all the TVs in it—and he was coming out at the same time, and I had this huge stack of papers and coffee in my hands—"

      "No—" Seth interrupts, seeing where the story is going. "He _seriously_ didn't!"

      Renee nods vigorously, laughing. "He did! Ran right into me like he didn't even see me and made me drop all of my papers _and_ the coffee Mr. Helmsley had me go get for him."

      Seth rolls his eyes. "Idiot."

      Renee nods but shrugs. "To be fair, he _did_ apologize and immediately went to get some paper towels to help clean up." She glances at Seth again. "I honestly thought as soon as he left that he wasn't going to come back."

      Seth allows himself to relax a little bit against the counter top, hearing of Ambrose's idiot antics amusing him. It's almost enough to make him forget that he's about to go talk to Mr. Helmsley alone in a few minutes. "At least he did."

      Renee nods again. "He then asked if I needed help taking the papers wherever I needed to go with them. He even offered to repay me for the coffee he spilt."

      One of Seth's eyebrows raise. " _Did_ he now?" He asks in an overly interested tone. Oh, this'll be _fun_.

      Renee however doesn't seem to catch onto his tone. "Mmmhm! That was nice of him, since he was the one who made me drop everything in the first place."

      "You gonna take him up on his offer?" Seth asks, choosing his words carefully.

      The blonde chews her lip for a second, her cheeks pinking again. "I think so, he seemed nice enough and genuinely sorry," she replies, her answer just as carefully worded. "And free coffee is always nice. Why, do you think it's a bad idea?" Her face becomes concerned as she says that last part, looking at Seth with slightly wide eyes.

      And oh, Seth is a bad, bad man.

      He smiles sweetly. "I think it's a _great_ idea.”

      Renee's face becomes a little less panicked, and a small smile stretches her lips and Seth can't help but mimic the look, despite the fact that he's smiling for an _entirely_ different reason. Oh Seth is _never_ going to let Ambrose live this down.

      As she's typing, Renee must notice something on her screen, and she mumbles an expletive underneath her breath that Seth doesn't quite catch. "It's four o'clock," she explains, typing with more vigor at her computer. "Let me call Mr. Helmsley and see if he's ready for you."

      Seth can't help the uptick of his pulse at Renee's sudden hurried movements. After all, Mr. Helmsley doesn't seem like someone who's fond of people being tardy. "Sorry, I distracted you," he replies, and she waves him off without looking at him.

      "I was the one who was talking your ear off," she replies, then offers a hand. "ID?"

      Seth hands it over without any fuss and she swipes it through her scanner, handing it back as soon as she does. "He hasn't called demanding where I am yet, so it must not be too urgent, right?" Seth asks, trying to make light of the situation.

      Renee glances at him. "Or stomped out here," she agrees, then puts a hand to her headset. "Mr. Helmsley, I believe your four o'clock is here. Yes, Agent Rollins. Yes, there was a problem with a scanner again, but I got it handled."

      She smiles at Seth and winks at him, and he mouths a quick, 'Thank You,' back at her, incredibly glad for the cover.

      "Of course Mr. Helmsley, I'll send him in right away," Renee nods, then takes her hand away from her headset. You're all set!" She says pleasantly.

      Seth nods and stands up straight. "Thanks again for the cover, you didn't have to lie,"

      Renee rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "Like I said, I talked your ear off, least I could do to get Mr. Helmsley off your back."

      Seth steps away to head towards the large office door. "Good talking to you," he offers a small short wave.

      She returns it. "You too."

      Stepping into Mr. Helmsley's office is still about as nerve wracking as he remembers it being, maybe even more so, considering now Seth has to face the man alone. Seth sort of wishes he had something on other than jeans, but they're black at least, and his shirt doesn't have any wrinkles in it, so there's that. It's just being around Mr. Helmsley with his always immaculate three piece suits—that probably cost more than Seth's salary for an entire month—tends to make one always feel under dressed.

      With a deep breath, Seth pushes through the door, trying to be confident, like he's meant to be there.

      Mr. Helmsley is at his desk as usual, and it's getting to the point where Seth has probably seen the man sitting down more than he has standing up, which is a strange thought and Seth banishes it away immediately when the COO turns his attention to Seth. The man offers Seth a crooked smile and stands as Seth enters, "Ah Seth, good to see you."

      Seth thankfully has enough wherewithal to see what Mr. Helmsley is doing, and crosses quickly to the desk so he can take the man's offered hand. He shakes it and maintains eye contact, trying for a small smile even though Mr. Helmsley can probably see right through it. Hard to fake and cover emotions when it comes to being in this business.

      Regardless Seth tries. "Likewise, Sir," he replies with a nod.

      "Sit won't you?" Mr. Helmsley replies, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk as he reclines back in his own. Seth is quickly struck with an image of being brought in front of a school principal, and once again banishes it from his head.

      "Thank you," he says instead, and sits.

      Mr. Helmsley folds his hands in front of him, leaning back in his chair and eyeing Seth over for a few seconds before speaking. Seth tries not to fidget, swallowing roughly. Mr. Helmsley then smiles pleasantly. "So, Seth, about your vacation request..."

      No beating around the bush then. Even though Mr. Helmsley doesn't sound angry or annoyed with him, Seth can't help but feel a little selfish for his request, and is a little concerned, considering Mr. Helmsley called him all the way here to talk to him about it. That seems to be a constant theme concerning the COO. Seth always feels constantly on edge, not wanting to say or do the wrong thing and fall out of the graces of probably the most powerful man in this company outside of the Mr. McMahon himself.

      So he asks politely.“Yes Sir?”

      “I want to let you know that it’s been approved personally by me, so barring emergencies, it will happen.” Seth smiles, a mild was of relief washing over him. It’s short lived however, when he hears the unspoken, ‘but’ at the end of the sentence. “However, it does put me at a bit of a conundrum.”

      Seth’s smile drops. “Sir?”

      Mr. Helmsley looks at Seth for a long moment, his laced fingers flexing slightly as he does. His lips purse before he heaves a sigh through his nose. “There is an enforcer operation that I’ve had in the works for the Shield, and from early speculations—if you accept the operation—it feels like it’s probably going to fall right around that time.”

      Seth blinks several times, his eyes drifting from Mr. Helmsley’s face to his desk. He knows what that means. There’s potential—as there always is in Espionage—that he won’t come back from said operation, and with his vacation planned immediately afterwards, that could spell disaster family-wise.

      “The mission isn’t more dangerous than any other per say,” Mr. Helmsley continues, “However, it’s a matter of course of unexpectedness that comes with every operation, you understand.”

      Seth nods, then quickly adds a, “Yes Sir,” because something tells him Mr. Helmsley is all about verbal confirmation.

      Mr. Helmsley nods in return. “Now, we’re trying our best to gather all of the information we need and set this up for you so that this whole situation—” he gestures between them, “—goes smoothly. I called you here because I believe you deserve to be in the know about this.”

      That ticks something a little wrong in Seth’s brain. He can’t help that his smile drops, and Mr. Helmsley notices, as his eyes narrow just slightly at Seth, like he’s trying to read the younger man’s mind. “If I may ask a question, Sir?

      Mr. Helmsley’s eyebrows raise a little bit and he smiles almost ruefully at him, chuckling through his nose before sitting back against his chair. “Of course, Seth.”

      The Agent hesitates for just a moment, swallowing before speaking. “Why did you just call _me_ here, and not the rest of the Shield?”

      Mr. Helmsley seems caught off guard by his question, and he stares at Seth, then chuckles audibly and shakes his head, like he doesn’t quite understand Seth’s question. “I wouldn’t think that would be necessary.”

      “Necessary?” It comes out of his mouth without his permission and Seth wishes desperately that he could call it back.

      Thankfully, Mr. Helmsley doesn’t seem offended by the little slip, in fact, he looks a little more confused, however also amused at Seth’s question. He blinks and says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “You’re essentially the leader of the Shield, aren’t you?”

      Seth eyes widen. “No!” he denies sharply, shaking his head. Then he realizes how that sounds, and his voice immediately becomes less sharp. He forces a hopefully not as fake as it sounds chuckle out as he speaks again, “No, no, no….I um...I wouldn’t say that.” He clears his throat for posterity and tries to look anywhere that isn’t Mr. Helmsley’s eyes.

      He misses however, the extremely amused look Mr. Helmsley throws his way. “You’re too humble, Seth,” he says, waving a dismissive hand, like Seth doesn’t have any idea what he’s talking about. Seth is honestly too afraid to correct him anymore. “So, what do you say?” Hunter asks after a moment, steering their conversation back to the point at hand.    

      Once again Seth wants to say yes, _should_ probably say yes because seriously, _look who he's talking to_ , but the idea of taking on an enforcer mission—and subsequent vacation—without the consent or knowledge of his other teammates make something settle weird in his stomach. He hesitates, and chews on the inside of his bottom lip for a second. Mr. Helmsley's face falls just slightly before asking, "I know that kind of face, what's the matter?" He asks.

      Seth hesitates just a little longer, not sure if he wants to say it, but Mr. Helmsley doesn't seem angry, so he takes a breath. The COO would want him to be honest, right? "With all due respect, Sir, I would feel more comfortable speaking about this with the rest of the Shield first."

      It takes another second, but then Mr. Helmsley smiles, reclining back in his chair again like this whole thing isn't a big deal, and Seth can feel his stomach settle just a little bit and his heart stop beating so heavily against his rib cage. "Is that all?" The elder man asks. Seth nods, not trusting his voice for the moment. Mr. Helmsley chuckles, then leans forward, grabbing a pen off of his desk and writing something on a scrap of paper with a quick flourish. He hands it over to Seth, who takes it. "Just so I don't have to call you in again—" Mr. Helmsley explains, then points the pen towards the piece of paper. "My personal number. Just call me with your decision after you talk with your boys."

      Seth blinks at the piece of paper, the sequential numbers boring into his retinas. He swallows and looks up at Mr. Helmsley, the down at the paper, then up at Mr. Helmsley again. “Sir?” He asks softly.

      Mr. Helmsley just smiles. “I’ll be waiting, Seth.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it bad that I'm already semi writing another story (and pairing) in my head for this universe? Probably. Is that going to stop me? Probably not. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Please let me know if you see any glaring mistakes and I'll be sure to fix them!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite how slow it may seem, things are-a developing mes amis.

***

      “So tell me again why it sounds like he’s giving us a choice but at the same time expects us to listen to him anyways?” Ambrose asks, frowning at Seth with his arms crossed over his chest like Seth has all the answers in the world.

      Thankfully, Reigns answers before he has a chance to. “Because he is,” He replies flatly, and alright Seth takes it back he’s not glad Reigns answered before he could.

      "Oh good," Ambrose says sardonically. "I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks so."

      Seth frowns, "Come on, I came to tell you about it didn't I?" he asks. "He was all gunning for me answering right then and there and I didn't!"

      "But not because of the fact that we know nothing about what he wants us to do," Reigns points out. "You were concerned because he was asking you to answer for us."

      Seth eyes him with slightly wide eyes under pulled together brows. "Well, yeah, of course." He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. "It's not like I'm the leader of the Shield—"

      "You'd have to earn that title over my dead body," Ambrose says sharply, and Seth rolls his eyes.

      "I  _know_ ," he replies just as sharply, throwing his hands in the air. "That's  _why_ I didn't answer him right away. I wanted to talk to you both about it because I wasn't about to answer for all of us!"

      Ambrose is apparently done with listening, and turns to stomp into the kitchen, mumbling, "If anyone's the fucking leader here it'd be Punk, but apparently that—" He continues on, but he gets too far away for Seth to hear the rest.

      "And what exactly were you going to discuss with us," Reigns replies mildly, pulling Seth's focus back. He's looking up towards Seth, a brow slightly raised. Seth's face scrunches up a little bit in anger.

      "I'm talking about the enforcer operation, are you two even listening to me?!"

      "Seth." Reigns says it sharply, but doesn't raise his voice. "What  _exactly_ about this mission did you want to talk to us about outside of Triple H wanting you to answer right away?"

      Seth stares at Reigns for a few long seconds, and then it hits him like a ton of bricks. He doesn't even know what exactly the mission even  _is_. Mr. Helmsley had even told him in the moment that he was still gathering information about it. Seth was so focused on the fact that Hunter was calling him the leader of the Shield that he hadn't even noticed that the man had tried to get him to agree to something he didn't even know the contents of.

      Reigns nods slowly at him, probably able to tell by the look on Seth's face that the half blonde has finally come to the conclusion he himself had probably figured out several minutes ago. Seth slumps onto the couch, cradling his face in his hands. "I'm an idiot."  

      "And he finally admits it," Ambrose calls from the kitchen, and Seth flips him the bird over the edge of the couch, his face still pressed into his other hand.

      He inhales and shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says as he exhales, a cold weight settling in his chest. "I was so caught up that I wasn't even thinking—"

      "Hey," Reigns puts a hand on his shoulder, and Seth peeks up at him from behind his hand. The man doesn't look angry, and he doesn't look like he's patronizing Seth at all, so at least there's that. "We'll figure it out."

      "We should talk to Punk, see if he knows anything about it," Ambrose pipes up from the kitchen, crunching on something and seemingly forgetting his anger already. He's probably amused that Seth made himself look like such an asshole.

      Seth shakes his head at the suggestion. "He's the one who told me Mr. Helmsley wanted to talk to me in the first place, and he didn't make any mention of an Enforcer Operation, so I honestly don't think he knows."

      "If there's anyone who could probably figure that shit out it would be Punk," Ambrose replies idly, coming out of the kitchen and around the couch, plopping down on his loveseat and biting into an apple with almost the sides of his teeth.

      True enough. Punk's high enough that maybe an innocuous question about operations that his Agents are being sent on wouldn't be suspicious in the least. Seth finally pulls his hand away from his face, and he feels rather than sees Reigns' hand slide off his shoulder. Seth glances at Ambrose, who's feet are stretched out and resting on the coffee table now, crossed at the ankles. "That's actually not a terrible idea."

      Ambrose crunches into the apple. "Don't worry," He says through the mouthful, then swallows and smiles without his eyes again. "I won't let it go to my head."

 

***

      Unfortunately, Dean’s sleeping problems once again reared their ugly heads as soon as he tried to go to bed last night. He stayed awake for a while, his mind buzzing about a handful of different things, but none so prevalent than Rollins and his meeting with Triple H. He was angry about the whole thing, that much was obvious, Rollins overlooking the fact that he didn’t even know what the mission entailed before all but assuring Triple H that it would be no problem for the Shield to take this mission the thing making him the most irritated. Only slightly overshadowing the fact that Triple H had apparently decided that Rollins was the one in charge.

      It had taken hours, but eventually he had nodded off between one blink and another. Unfortunately though it wasn’t a restful sleep. He woke up several times due to dreams that he couldn’t remember as soon as he opened his eyes, and stayed in a quasi not-quite-asleep but not-quite-awake. He would jerk into awareness for a few seconds, then slip back into staring at the ceiling making shapes and watching colors morph across his slow blinking eyes, only subconsciously aware that time was passing. All in all, he probably got about an hour of sleep that was worth anything to him, and that was right before he woke up for the final time. His internal clock had decided that it was finished with this nonsense, and that he wasn’t going back to sleep no matter how tired or disoriented he felt. Without checking the time he knew it was early, the sun hadn’t even completely risen yet, and he sat with his back against the wall of his bed, staring blearily into nothing.

      He would have rather had no sleep if this is how it was going to be.

 

      He feels a little better once he finally pulls himself up and off of his bed, trudging down the hall and into the living room, only to plop down onto the loveseat and go back to staring into nothing.

      Time passes and Dean honestly doesn’t know how long he’s sitting there before Rollins comes strolling out of the hallway, stretching his arms above his head and yawning deeply. He scratches at one of his hips underneath his shirt and starts a little bit when he sees Dean sitting curled up in the loveseat. “Morning…” Rollins says tentatively, and Dean grunts back, his voice hoarse.

      “G’mornin’.”

      “Rough night?”

      Dean just makes a sound in the back of his throat.

      “Ok…” Rollins says, sitting down on the couch.

      Dean finally snaps out of it again, pushing his palms into his eyes, pressing and rubbing hard enough that sworls and patterns of bright green flourish behind them. He rubs his face too, groaning and trying to shake himself out of this stupid fucking bad sleep stupor. He would have  _much_ preferred not sleeping at all, at least it doesn’t make him fucking spacey.

      “Better?” Rollins says carefully.

      “Ye—” Dean’s voice croaks. He cracks his knuckles and clears his throat. “Yeah.”

      “You eat yet?” his teammate asks, once again carefully, and Dean really wishes he’d cut the crap.

      “No,” he replies tersely, shifting his shoulders and his legs, which had cramped up slightly while he was staring into nothing. “Should make coffee,” he adds, more to himself than anything.

      There’s a second or two of silence between them, before Rollins looks directly at him. "That reminds me..." he says, trailing off and giving Dean a smile that the taller man absolutely does  _not_  like. "Sounds like you have a little  _date_ , Ambrose."

      Dean jolts, and his eyebrows shoot up, then immediately furrow back down. He frowns at Rollins. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

      Rollins' face only gets almost sinister as he leans in a little closer to Dean. Dean—being on the loveseat with not much space to go anywhere else even though Rollins is on the couch—scrunches into the corner of his seat, pulling his knees up as if they could defend him. "You know, Renee, the coffee..." Rollins trails off again, like he thinks that Dean is gonna say anything just because he's doing that stupid leading comments thing.

      Dean's frown just deepens the more the asshole keeps talking. He squishes more into the corner of the chair. "Who the hell told you about that?" He demands, trying to keep his voice from raising any louder than it is already.

      Rollins just rolls his eyes like Dean's a child, and Dean grits his teeth, swallowing with a clench of his jaw. "Who do you think, dumbass?"

      Dean narrows his eyes and straight up scowls at him. "What the fuck does it matter?" He spits, and Rollins chuckles.

      "You knocked her over, spilled her coffee and offered to get her a new one!" Rollins explains like it's the funniest thing in the whole fucking world for some reason. Yeah, Dean was actually fucking  _there_ , he knows what happened. "You can't make that shit up in a sitcom, Ambrose!"

      "It's not like I was gonna be an asshole about it," Ambrose replies defensively, resisting the urge to pull one of the pillows to his chest.

      "So you asked her out on a date."

      " _It's not a date!_ " Dean argues.

      Rollins' brows raise and he still has that shit eating grin on his stupid fucking face. " _She_ seems to think it is."

      Dean blinks, caught off guard. "Sh-She does?" It comes stuttering out of his mouth before he can really comprehend it and he  _really_ hates how it makes Rollins' grin all the more fucking annoying.

      "Yup" Rollins replies, popping the ‘p’ of the word. "Looked pretty excited about it too~" he teases and Dean actually does pick up one of the pillows beside him and tosses is as hard as he can at Rollins' fucking head.

      "Shut the fuck up!" He shouts as Rollins cackles even when the pillow bounces off his head and over the back of the couch.

      "What the hell are you two fighting about now?" Roman asks blankly as he comes out of the hallway, and before Dean gets the chance to fly out of his seat to punch Rollins in his stupid fucking face, the half blonde man whips around with an evilly gleeful smile on his face and exclaims.

      "Ambrose has a  _date_."

      To his own credit, Roman doesn't react any more than with raised brows and looking in Dean's direction for confirmation, and he must get what he's looking for even though Dean doesn't say a fucking word about it. "Anyone we know?" He says, like he's genuinely curious. Dean shifts his knees a little closer to his chest and he stares hard at Roman, trying to decide whether or not the man's going to tease him over this too.

      Unfortunately, with him focusing on Roman, he once again misses the opportunity to punch Rollins right in his stupid fucking mouth, and the half blonde answers for him again. "You know Mr. Helmsley's Secretary? It's her."

      Dean throws the second pillow as hard as he can again, but tragically, Rollins actually dodges this time, and it leaves Dean woefully without any more stuffed projectiles.

      "Oh." Roman's eyebrows perk up a little bit at the answer. "Good for you," he adds, then walks into the kitchen like that's the end of the conversation.

      "It's not a date!" Dean replies hastily, gesturing sternly with his hands. "I'm literally just paying her back for the coffee I spilled because I'm not an asshole." He then glares at Rollins. "Unlike  _you_."

      "Sounds like a TV show to me," Roman comments after a few moments, and Rollins cackles gleefully and it's official, Dean hates both of them. He buries his face into his knees and groans.

      "I know, right!?" Rollins replies, turning and hanging his arms over the back of the couch. "You couldn't  _make_ this shit up!"

      “Both of you fucking suck,” Dean comments from behind his knees. His face is hot, and he’d rather not evaluate whether or not it’s because he’s embarrassed. He’d rather call it anger. Right definitely anger, not that he’s embarrassed so he’s hiding his face. Definitely not.

      Thankfully, Rollins seems fit to stop ribbing him to go and make food, and Dean watches both his teammates putter carefully around the kitchen, glaring at both of them because both of them are absolutely terrible.

      Roman gains a little more points back when he unexpectedly brings Dean buttered toast—sliced diagonally—and doesn’t say a word to Dean as he does it. Dean takes the plate and eats without a sound, watching as Roman goes back into the kitchen to presumably make his own breakfast.

      Rollins’ breakfast making is much louder, and loses him some points since he uses the blender to make those awful health smoothies he likes so much.  
He washes the blender thankfully, sticking it in the dishwasher before retreating out of the kitchen with his smoothie. “Have some errands I need to run today, probably gonna be gone for a while considering the weather,” he says probably more to Roman than to Dean. That’s fine, Dean doesn’t really care where the half blonde goes.

      “Need any help?” Roman asks, still in the kitchen.

      After a drink of his gross smoothie, Rollins shakes his head. “I should be fine thanks, just wanted you to know.”

      Roman nods. “Thanks for telling us.”

      Dean watches Rollins shrug and head off to his room, probably to get ready for his ‘errands’. At least he’ll be out of Dean’s life for a couple of hours. That’ll be nice.

      He’s glowering down the hallway towards Rollins’ room when Roman approaches and offers a steaming mug to him. Dean blinks up at the man before taking it, and it’s coffee, and it looks like it’s got all the shit that Dean likes in it judging by the color of it. He takes a sip and yeah, it’s good. He doesn’t question how Roman knows how he takes his coffee—Roman’s observant in that kind of silent creepy way—and takes another sip. “Thanks,” he mumbles before setting it down so he can eat his toast.

      Roman doesn’t reply.

      Once Rollins is finally gone and Dean has finished his toast and is working on his coffee again, Roman approaches with his own plate of food and sits on the couch, carefully setting it on the coffee table. He keeps his own mug in hand. "It doesn't have to be a date unless you want it to," he says quietly, sipping at his coffee and pointedly  _not_ looking at Dean, as if that makes what he says any less terrible.

      Dean flinches. "Nope, nuh-uh, I'm not talking about this anymore,” he declares, holding his mug tighter in his hands. “Rollins already had his fun and is probably never going to let me live this down and that already is going to be a suck and a half and—"

      "Hey," Roman interrupts, and he's actually looking at Dean now. Maybe not exactly making eye contact, but it's close enough, and it's enough to make Dean's mouth shut with an audible click. Roman waits for a few seconds, maybe to make his gaze all the more meaningful? Dean has no idea, but the other man does it anyway, until finally he speaks again. "If you really don't want it to be a date it doesn't have to be. You're offering a kind gesture to someone, that doesn't automatically mean it's romantic. You're allowed to just be nice."

      Dean sets his cup down and mumbles into the pillow Roman retrieved from the floor. "Tell that to Rollins."

      Roman's look turns rather bored. "He was just having fun being the instigator for a change," he replies. "He's enjoying being the one to fluster instead of being the flustered."

      "Is this karma? Because if it is I want nothing to do with it." Dean replies, resting just his chin on top of the pillow instead of his whole face.

      Roman pulls his mug up to his lips. "Could be nicer to Seth," he comments before taking a drink, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eyes.

      Dean glowers at the other man. "Are you ever gonna realize that not everyone in this world gets along all hunky dory and that maybe Rollins and I just hate each other?"

      Roman's eyes slide back in his direction. "I'd believe that if I ever witnessed either of you actually visibly  _trying_ to get along," he says. "But since I haven't, I stand by my statement. You could both stand to be more civil with each other."

      "Tell that to Rollins," Dean mutters.

      Roman gestures at him with his coffee. " _That_ , right there, is part of the reason. Both of you blame the other for your shitty attitudes, and so neither of you choose to be an adult and be the bigger person and actually try to get along." His sip from his mug this time actually looks quite...angry.

      Dean blinks. "You've had that stewing for a while, huh?" He asks carefully.

      Roman sighs and sets his mug down on the coffee table, rubbing his face in his hands a few times before removing them to look at Dean. "I've been living with and trying to explain this to you and Seth for the month and a half we've lived together and none of it seems to be getting through either of your thick skulls," he says plainly. "I don't know how else to tell you other than to spell it out for you."

      Dean looks down at the floor, his eyes unfocusing and making weird pictures and patterns in the carpet before refocusing. "We're not that bad, besides, we—"

      "You don't even call each other by your first  _names_ ," Roman accuses, and Dean's mouth shuts, trapping his protest. He lets it sit, but eventually swallows it down. He stares back at the carpet.

      "We work well together," he comments, like that makes up for anything.

      "Yes," Roman concedes, "But can you imagine how much  _better_ we'll work together if you and Seth put aside your differences, act like adults, and be  _nice_?"

      In all honesty, Dean really can't imagine it. He and Rollins are just....too different. "You make it sound like it's easy," he accuses gently, chin still pressed into the edge of the pillow.

      "It's not," Roman says. "You have to work at it. Like I've been saying from day one. If we don't even try, then there's no way any of this is going to work out in the end."

      Dean stares at Roman for a few long seconds. The silence hangs in the air between them, until Dean says. "How come  _you_ turned out to be Team Mom?"

      Roman deadpans. "Because the rest of the team are fucking children."

      Dean just snorts.

 

***

      Punk is finally wrapping up the finalized report for the Anderson Case when his phone rings sharply, breaking the bubble of silence that had permeated the office until that exact moment. Punk frowns and hesitates, looking at the phone like it's personally slighting him. It's fairly early in the morning still all things considered, but if any of the higher ups were going to call him for a meeting or needed something from him, it wouldn't be right now.

      Curious yet cautious, Punk leans over to check the caller ID, hoping that maybe if it is one of his bosses, that he can pretend he wasn't in his office, and missed the call. He tells himself that, even though he knows he wouldn't, because they would find out that he had done it in the first place. Imagine his surprise, when instead of seeing any familiar Boss names lighting up the display, it just says, 'Dean Ambrose.'

      Now it's not unusual for his Agents to call him, however, more often than not, Punk is expecting it, or has an idea as to why one of them are calling him in the first place. Also, Dean is usually the last person out of that group that he would suspect be calling. Punk is so flabbergasted by it, that he almost realizes he actually has to  _answer_ the call. Quickly, before the call ends, he rips the phone off the receiver. "Hello?" He asks cautiously. "Dean?"

      "What's up, Boss?" chirps a voice from the other line, and yeah, that's Ambrose alright.

      Punk blinks, but leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling tiles. "Nothing much...." he replies tentatively, "Just finishing up the last details on the Anderson report."

      "Geez, still?" Ambrose asks, like he's perfectly content to continue down this line of easy conversation.

      "A lot of shit happened on that mission, Dean," Punk replies, and narrows his eyes subconsciously. A few seconds of silence from both of them pass, before Punk sighs, "Did you have a reason for calling me, Dean?"

      "Yeah," Dean replies, rather clipped, but doesn't say anything else. Punk takes a breath through his nose, closes his eyes, and counts to ten quickly in his head.

      "Would you like to tell me what it is?"

      "I thought it would be better if I didn't demand help the second you answered the phone," Dean replies simply.

      Punk lets out a breath. "While normally I would agree....the fact that it was you who called me kind of tipped me off that something was amiss."

      "Rollins did something stupid."

      That makes Punk sit up straight in his chair. He literally saw Seth yesterday afternoon, what in the hell could the younger man have done in that short of a time? "What happened, is he alright?" He asks, not even trying to hide the slight panic in his voice.

      "He's fine," Dean replies flatly. "Kinda wish he wasn't."

      A relieved sigh comes out of Punk, and he leans back in his chair again. "Don't  _do_ that," he chides gently. "So what happened?"

      "He's basically agreed to another Enforcer Operation from Triple H without knowing what the fuck he was even agreeing to do."

      Punk blinks. "An Enforcer Operation?" He repeats, just to make sure that he's heard Dean right.

      However, "Yeah," is all Dean says, and he doesn't elaborate any further.

      Punk only just resists the urge to sigh deeply again and pinch the bridge of his nose, where he can feel a headache starting to form. "I wasn't aware that Hunter had an operation ready for you."

      "He doesn't," Dean replies with a grunt. "Apparently—" he adds with a frustrated sarcastic tone, "Triple H doesn't have all of the information gathered yet."

      "Interesting," Punk comments in almost an identical tone, immediately  scooting his chair over to his computer. He lays the phone into the crook of his shoulder and starts typing. "I'm fairly certain  _I_  don't have any information pertaining to an Enforcer Mission with the Shield either."

      Dean apparently still has the good nature to chuckle. "S'why I called, Boss."

      Punk spends the next few minutes typing, going through reports and paperwork and conference minutes and notes just to be sure he actually didn't miss anything that could have possibly been related to anything that could be classified as related to an Enforcer Operation for his Agents. Dean doesn't seem to mind the silence with his occasional mumblings, waiting patiently on the other line. The longer and longer he scours through information that yields nothing, the deeper and deeper the frown creases Punk's face. "I'm not immediately seeing anything," He eventually says, "But that doesn't necessarily mean that it wasn't mentioned to me. I'll have to go through my files more thoroughly to be absolutely sure."

      Dean sighs, like he already knows what the answer is going to be. "Tell you what Boss, if you do end up finding nothing..." he hesitates for a second, "Do you think there's a way you  _can_?"

      Punk switches the phone to his other ear, and leans back in his chair again. "My Agents deserve to have information about any operation before they accept it, no matter who the assignment comes from," he says, "I'll see if there's anything I can find."

      "Thanks Boss, knew I could count on you," Dean replies, sounding more relieved than he had for the entire phone call.

      "I can't promise miracles, but I can do my best."

      "I get it," Dean replies. "Whatever you can get it better than what we have, so we'll take it."

      "Ok, I'll let you know as soon as I have something," Punk says, scanning over the final Anderson report, withholding another sigh. "Oh and Dean?"

      "Yeah?"

      "Don't let anyone accept the mission before I have something."

      Dean gives a humorless laugh. "He'd have to do it over my dead body."

      Punk didn't mention any specific names, but they both know who Dean is talking about. Punk sighs. "I'll call you if I get anything."

      "Thanks Boss."

      Then the line goes dead. Punk holds the phone in the crook of his shoulder for a few moments before removing it, and placing it carefully back into the receiver with a click. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk and cradling his head in his hands. Finally, he lets out the deep sigh he had been holding back. "Fuck."

 

***

      Dean swipes through the 'end call' prompt with his thumb, watching the screen go black. He carelessly tosses his phone a little away from him on the couch, the little rectangle bouncing harmlessly and coming to rest on the other side of the couch. Dean's body slides against the couch, his head lolling on the back rest. With a heave of breath, he pushes his messy bangs out of his eyes and off his forehead, staring at the ceiling and absently making shapes and patterns in the stucco. Despite Punk's reassurances, the heaviness in his stomach hasn't left him, and he's still fucking pissed at Rollins for being so fucking short sighted. The half blonde isn't normally one to overlook details, and Dean can't help but wonder what the hell went on in that meeting.

      "Do you want to talk or would you like me to leave you to your existential crisis?"

      Dean's eyes snap to the source of the voice, and Roman is there, standing in the entrance to the hallway. Dean's bangs fall back into his eyes as he shifts to sit up straight. He doesn't bother to brush them away. "Neither?"

      Roman shrugs, like it doesn't matter, and after the conversation they had yesterday, Dean is glad that the older man doesn't push it. Said man simply steps out of the hallway and approaches the couch, blinking down at the phone sitting at the empty space beside Dean before reaching to pick it up and hand it over as he sits down. Dean takes the phone without a word and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans, watching idly as Roman turns the TV on and starts to surf channels. The background noise is rather welcome, despite the fact that Dean can practically feel that Roman wants to say something. He doesn't encourage it, however, content to leave Roman to decide whether or not he wants to bring up whatever he wants to bring up. Dean is content to sit, slightly slouched again, and watch whatever Roman puts on.

      It turns out to be football again, and although Dean likes football well enough, it doesn't look like any teams he recognizes. Must be college football again.

      The two of them watch in relative silence, with only a few murmurs about the outcome of a pass or a play breaching it. Eventually, when it goes to commercial, Roman seems to have made up his mind about whether or not he's going to bring up what he's been thinking about. "How was the phone call with Punk?" He asks, still looking at the TV.

      Dean doesn't even bother asking how Roman knows it was Punk he had called, it would be a pointless endeavor, so he simply answers the question instead. "About what you'd expect."

      "Bad enough to get you to throw your phone away in either disgust or anger?" Roman replies, looking in his direction with a raised brow.

      Dean shrugs. "More like frustration about the current state of things."

      "So he didn't know anything about the operation either," Roman concludes, and once again, Dean doesn't bother wondering or asking about how the Samoan came to that conclusion.

      Dean shakes his head. "As of the current moment, no," he replies. "Said he would let us know the minute he has anything."

      "At least there's that," Roman says, turning the volume back up once the commercial ends.

      Dean reaches up to scratch at his chin. "Just worried he ain't gonna get anything before a certain someone comes barking at our door for answers."

      Roman doesn't turn his attention away from the TV, but half shrugs. "It's out of our control now," he says.

      "Yeah," Dean replies begrudgingly. "Don't like it when that happens."

      A response doesn't come from his teammate, so Dean doesn't voice anything else he's thinking about, despite the fact that it's quite a lot. He feels like he's going to have to keep extra special eye on Rollins for the next however long it takes until Punk can at least get them some modicum of information about what the hell is going on and what the next enforcer operation may be. He also can't help but wonder who the hell screwed up this time and what they did that was bad enough to incur the wrath of Triple H. He laughs mentally to himself. While the man has never been anything but civil and forthcoming with the three of them, it's not hard for Dean to imagine one slip up unleashing the beast that Dean is one hundred percent aware lies underneath those nicely pressed expensive suits. Even though Triple H isn't much of an active agent anymore, Dean is aware that he still  _looks_ it. Those suits don't hide the fact that the dude is massive and has about maybe ten plus years of experience on any of the Shield members and—

      "Get up."

      Roman's voice makes Dean blink out of where he was staring blankly at the TV, which is actually no longer on. Dean honestly can't seem to recall it actually being turned off. He glances up at his teammate, who is standing next to him, his hands on his hips as he looks probably in the vicinity of Dean's forehead. "Hm?" Dean asks, raising a brow. Does Roman need the whole couch for something?

      The man seems to follow is nonverbal line of thought, but doesn't explain anymore, just says. "Get up," again, but now motions with one of his hands.

      The tawny haired Agent blinks at Roman, but when there's still no more explanation, Dean sighs and groans just a little bit as he stands, not quite able to meet Roman's gaze, but it's close enough. "So...?" He asks slowly when Roman still hasn't explained why they're suddenly standing.

      "Help me move the furniture." Roman says, turning to pick up the coffee table and move it out of the way and actually putting it in the kitchen.

      "Sudden need to redecorate?" Dean jokes with a disbelieving look thrown his teammate's way.

      "No," Roman says, returning to the living room. "Now help me move the couch against the wall."

      Dean sighs, wishing he knew why, but apparently Roman has entered a rather unhelpful state of being where he's being cryptic for no fucking reason, and it's just better to do what he asks. So he moves, taking one side of the couch, and lifting so they can both awkwardly shuffle it out of the way and press it as close as it can get to the wall. "Anything else?" Dean asks, huffing out a breath.

      "Chair and the loveseat," is all Roman says, still not explaining as to why they're doing this. Dean just shakes his head with a sigh and removes his jacket, following after Roman to help with the loveseat as well.

      Once they've moved all of the furniture as out of the way as they can, both of the Shield Agents stand in the middle of the rather open looking living room, Dean with his hands on his hips as he looks at Roman. "Ok, we've moved the stuff," he gestures at the furniture. "Will you please tell me  _why_ , now?"

      Roman doesn't answer for a second, and Dean resists the deepest urge to sigh sharply and throw his hands up in exasperation as he watches the older man pull a hair tie off his wrist and start to pull his hair up and out of his face. Finally, he does answer, and Dean is rather floored with it, enough that his mouth actually drops open. "We're going to fight."

      Dean tilts his head and leans forward just slightly. "I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you—"

      "You did," Roman interrupts as he finishes tying his hair up. "We're gonna fight."

      "In the living room," Dean clarifies.

      Roman points a thumb towards the snowy outdoors. "You wanna go out to a gym in that?"

      Dean's eyes glance at the windows before his eyes return to his teammate. He regards Roman with a look that is still tinged with disbelief. "So you wanna spar all of a sudden?" He tries to clarify again, just so he actually knows what the fuck the man in front of him is trying to say.

      "Yes."

      Dean blinks, looks out the windows again, and then back to Roman. The older man is rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to sit just above his elbows, and Dean is kind of absolutely flabbergasted about what the actual living hell is going on. Roman finally makes brief eye contact with him after he's done with his sleeves, his brows raised as if to say, 'We doin' this or not?' and a unintended smile breaks out on Dean's face. He tilts his head back and forth, some of the bones popping, and says, "So we got any ground rules we should go over?"

      Roman seems pleased that Dean is going along with his sudden urge to spar in the living room, and shifts so their standing opposite to each other. "No deadly force."

      Dean snorts. "Ok, yeah, obvious."

      "As little damage to the apartment as possible," Roman adds.

      Dean throws his hands up and rolls his eyes, however in fake exasperation this time. "You see now you ruin all my carefully laid plans to toss you into into the coffee table."

      "I like the coffee table," is Roman's response, and Dean just snorts again.

      "Anything else?"

      "Don't hold back."

      "Kinda hard when you set parameters like that," Dean jokes, reaching down to tighten his belt so that his pants don't go anywhere.

      "You can manage," Roman assures.

      Both of them move to the center of the cleared living room, and for a moment, they both stretch and roll their bodies, each of them falling more into a fighting state of mind. Dean sniffs and cracks his knuckles and any of the other joints he can in his hands, and without fanfare, quickly goes for a jabbing punch into Roman's shoulder.

      He expects maybe a soft block, Roman brushing his hand off or turning away, giving Dean the opportunity to spin away and do some other punchy shit where Roman's not blocking. What he doesn't expect however, is for Roman to swipe his hand away, step into his space while he's thrown slightly off balance, and lean in to hook a hand under Dean's knee and yank it, forcing Dean to fall with a grunt to the ground. In another quick movement, Roman shifts, flips Dean over onto his front, and pulls Dean's captured leg up, hyper extending it. Dean grunts again and tries to lift along with the pressure, but Roman's foot ends up on his back. The pressure isn't intense, but it strains just enough to sting. "I said, 'don't hold back'," he chides, a tinge of disappointment coloring his voice.

      Dean glances up at Roman with what limited movement he has and taps the carpet. Roman lets him free and the tawny haired man stands up and shakes himself out. "Yeah, alright, ok, I got it," he says, putting his hands up and bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. If that's how Roman wants to go, he'll go there.

      Crouching slightly so his center of gravity is harder to get at, Dean steps forward into Roman's space again. He goes for another jabbing punch, expecting Roman to once again try to use his momentum against him. Dean can't help but smirk when that's exactly what happens—Roman probably thinking he's still not taking this as seriously as the Samoan wants him to—and the larger man sweeps Dean's hand away and down in a quick flash of his hands, leaving Dean's face open to strike at. However, Dean manages to reverse Roman's strike in the same exact maneuver, but instead of pushing the hand away, Dean holds onto it, and with his free hand he punches Roman in the shoulder. The maneuver usually calls for the reversal strike to be aimed at the face, but Dean's not actually trying to hurt Roman here, so he'll keep his hits to mainly body blows. Doesn't mean he doesn't hit the Big Guy with enough force to make an, 'oof' to leak out of his mouth.

      Dean smirks. "Serious enough for you?"

      There's a second where Roman just looks at him, and then suddenly movement happens. He twists, his captured hand breaking free of Dean's through the path of least resistance by using his free hand to push against Dean's elbow, hyper extending it. Again, with quick hand movements, he takes Dean's arm and pulls it up behind him, pushing the arm rather uncomfortable up Dean's back. The tawny haired Agent silently thanks how limber his shoulders are otherwise this would probably be a lot more painful. The move brings Roman behind Dean, opening the younger man up to all kinds of fun things Roman could potentially do to him, and he prepares for that, dropping his stance a little so it's more square, ready for Roman to strike. The big man doesn't however, just keeps Dean's arm screwed up behind his back, and says close to Dean's ear. "We're getting there."

      Dean can't help but smile.

 

      They play that game for a while, trading blows back and forth, swiping away from maneuvers with quick almost at the last second movements, seeing who can outdo one another with how outlandish their reversals can get without actually doing a lot of harm to one another and the space around them. It's actually a pretty fun and useful exercise if Dean were to take a step back and think about it. Having to come up with different actions on the fly and rework them mid movement is something that they've done before—it comes with the sparring territory—but doing this with Roman is, Dean realizes, really fucking fun.

      So maybe he gets a little careless, and maybe he takes an almost running jump at Roman, causing the other man to simply react, catching Dean and using the momentum to drop and turn and slam Dean _hard_ into the carpet, hard enough that the breath punches right out of Dean's lungs as he's spread out flat on his back. He gasps harshly, and Roman swears, dropping to a crouch and looking his teammate over. Some of his hair has fallen out of his bun, and his eyes flick over Dean, but Dean is  _smiling_ and  _cackling_.

      " _That’s_ what I'm talking about!" He exclaims, and takes the hand Roman offers, whooping as he's yanked up vertical again.

      "You ok?" Roman asks carefully, still keeping their hands linked, like he's just waiting for Dean to fall back again.

      Dean breaks the grip and shakes himself out, vigorously shaking his head and bouncing on the balls of his feet again. He claps his open palms on his face a few times before his hands curl into fists, up and at the ready. "Yeah, let's keep goin', it's gettin' good now."

      "You sure?" Roman asks, still looking at him with hesitant eyes.

      "Shut the fuck up and hit me," Dean says, and he can feel his smile turning a little feral as he watches Roman drop into stance.

 

      They get a little more careless with their blows now, not as concerned with hurting one another as they really start to get into their sparring. While before they were easily trading maneuvers and then letting the other get up so they can start again, once they're on the floor, they continue to roll around, grabbing at arms, legs, anything they can reach to subdue the other and force them to tap against the carpet or the others' skin. While Roman has faster hands and it better at stringing together moves to keep Dean on his toes, Dean is squirrely, bending and wiggling and flinging his body around to keep out of Roman's grip. He's also not afraid to be cheap, snapping his teeth at Roman's hands if they get too close to his face and successfully biting the meat of Roman’s hand only once before Roman declares no more biting. Dean rolls his eyes but does indeed stop trying to bite him, reminding Roman that not all targets are going to fight fairly and if he wasn't so nice he'd've kicked Roman square in the dick several times by now.

      They do actually manage to dent the wall beside the kitchen when Roman appears to overcalculate throwing Dean away and he bangs an elbow into the wall. Neither of them notice or really react even when Dean grunts at the pain zooming up his arm. He's still smiling wildly, and let's Roman approach him, his fists up and at the ready. But Roman doesn't strike. He's panting lightly, sweaty with his now loose hair falling over his face and his shoulders, some of it sticking to his temples. He's actually smiling now too, just slightly, through his open-mouthed panting. He reaches up to bracket his arms against the wall on either side of Dean's head, and Dean can see that event through the curtain of hair, Roman is staring directly into his eyes. His senses still in fight or flight, Dean resists the instinct and the voice screaming at him that now would be the perfect opportunity to head butt the other man. They're obviously in time out.

      "You ok?" Roman asks softly.

      Dean shrugs with one shoulder and shakes out the arm, his smile shows his teeth but it's still a little wild. "'M good. You?"

      Roman simply nods in answer.

      "Wanna keep going?" Dean asks, the adrenaline still pumping through his blood and making him antsy, still wanting very much to punch and hit and roll around on the carpet. This is so much fucking  _fun_.

      Roman simply nods again, and Dean gets an idea. In the blink of an eye, he hooks both of his hands in the crooks of Roman's elbows and hauls himself up, half expecting this not to work and for his weight to bring Roman down. The Big Man however either expects it or adjusts, and grunts, not letting either of them fall to the ground. A manic smile splits Dean's face and he quickly brings both of his feet up and plants them directly on Roman's diaphragm and pushes with all his weight. Realistically, Roman could have just adjusted, keeping his grip on Dean's arms and rendering the kick ineffective, but he doesn't, letting Dean's arms free and falling backwards. Dean can't quite gets his feet totally under him as he falls, but as he lands he rolls, popping up to a crouch as he stares at Roman, who's done the same. They stare, wide eyed and panting, both of their mouths tinged with smiles. In another second they're grappling, rolling around on the carpet again. Unfortunately, Dean's not quite fast enough, and he ends in a headlock with Roman's beefy arm wrapped around his throat, applying just enough pressure that Dean will get lightheaded if he struggles too much or in the wrong way. He reaches up to try to pry Roman's arm off his neck, or at least put a buffer between the Samoan's arm and his neck, but Roman adjusts, wrenching Dean's upper body a little and locking his arm tighter, causing Dean to gasp.

      Their little bubble of focus is popped however, when the front door opens. Both Dean and Roman freeze where they are, still locked up together to stare, as Rollins steps in with several bags of groceries and a shopping bag or two. He’s got quickly melting snow sprinkled in his hair as well as on his clothes, and he hasn’t noticed them quite yet, too focused on trying to get in the door without dropping anything. Dean and Roman still haven’t moved, though Roman’s grip on his neck is not nearly as tight as before. Rollins turns finally after locking the door behind him and to his credit, doesn’t yelp or anything when he sees Roman and Dean on the carpet, but he does jolt a little bit at the unexpected sight of the cleared living room and both of his teammates on the ground, still panting slightly due to exertion. He blinks at them, and Dean notices that he’s actually wearing glasses, the black rimmed frames speckled with water due to the melting snow.

      Rollins doesn’t move forward into the living room despite the fact that he’s got a reasonable amount of bags in his hands. “I know I’m going to regret asking, but what the hell are you doing?” He asks, tone matter-of-fact and yet slightly exasperated at the same time.

      Roman finally seems to have come to his senses, since he lets Dean go. Dean clears his throat and tilts his head to stretch out his neck and crack some of the joints that had stiffened during the headlock. “Sparring,” Roman replies.

      Rollins sighs. “Of course you are,” he replies, like he shouldn’t have expected anything more from the two of them considering he left them alone. He truly enters the house then, stepping around the moved furniture with a thinly veiled sense of annoyance, and mumbles something Dean doesn’t really hear as he steps around the coffee table that’s been placed in the kitchen. He starts to put his groceries away, and the previous air in the house has all but shattered. Both Dean and Roman stand, stretching out various parts of their bodies. Dean’s elbow is still sore—he’s probably gonna get a big ‘ol bruise there now that he thinks about it—but his blood it still singing, urging him not to stop and to keep trying to fight Roman. But the fun police is back, so there’s no way that’s going too—

      “Oh  _please_ , don’t stop on my account.” Rollins seems to have noticed that both he and Roman are just standing there, watching their teammate putter around in the kitchen, and while his tone was clearly sarcastic, Dean smirks.

      “You still on, Big Dog?”

      Roman rolls his eyes skyward before focusing them on Dean again, flicking them over to Rollins with a little jerk of his head. Dean is suddenly reminded of the conversation they had had earlier and it makes a sour frown curl his mouth. Roman’s eyes widen just slightly and he raises his brows, as if to say, ‘ _Well_?’

      Dean holds in the deep sigh he wants to give, and he turns back to Rollins. “Rollins—”

      Roman coughs a few times, louder than he probably needs to, and Dean sends a glare the Big Man’s way, sneering just slightly.

      “Seth—” Dean tries again, and the name doesn’t feel right in his mouth. It gets Rollins’ attention however, the younger man stopping in his tracks and narrowing his eyes at Dean like he’s trying to figure out what both of them are up to.

      “What?” He asks carefully if not a little harshly.

      Dean almost doesn’t say it, but another pointed clearing of the throat from Roman makes him. “Did you wanna—” Dean starts, throwing a thumb behind him to Roman. “Join?” He finishes, the last part of the question tinged in a way like he isn’t sure that’s the right word.

      Rollins’ eyes widen. His gaze flicks from Dean, to Roman, then back again. “Sparring?” He clarifies.

      Duh. Dean doesn’t point that out however, knowing Roman will jab him in the ribs with his elbow or something, so Dean nods. “Yeah.”

      The half blonde looks taken aback a little by the question. He looks at his mostly put away groceries. “Um, yeah, ok…” he says after a moment, actually surprising Dean a little. He would’ve thought for sure that the half blonde would have tried to put an end to this the second he walked in and found Roman and him on the floor, but apparently not. Rollins looks back at them, pointing at his things. “Do you mind if I…?”

      “Sure,” Roman replies before Dean can say anything.

      Rollins nods, starting to put his groceries back, but at a quicker pace than before.

      Dean watches him for a second, trying not to be antsy and verbally urge Rollins to go faster so that they can get back to fighting already, but it’s kinda really fucking hard with all the energy that’s pumping through him. A hand lands on his shoulder, and it’s Roman, who gives him a little look, his eyebrows raised, and Dean nods. He’s fine, just kinda doesn’t want to stop moving.

      “Be right back,” Rollins says, quickly walking past them once he’s finished putting his groceries away, taking the other shopping bags with him into his room.

      Dean sighs, then, just so he has something to do, he pulls away from Roman, who gives him another look. “Gotta piss,” he says.

      Roman’s face sours just a little. “You’re gross.”

      Dean chuckles through his nose and sticks his tongue out at Roman before disappearing into the bathroom.

 

      Once his business is done and he’s washed his hands, Dean sighs, splashing some water onto his face and hair to wash some of the sweat away and cool himself down. He wets his hair enough that he can kinda slick it back out of his eyes, and he inspects his face in the mirror. He’s got bags underneath his eyes from lack of sleep, but his eyes are clear, his pupils still a little wide from the adrenaline still moving through him. He’s got a rug burn on his cheekbone and when he rotates his bad shoulder, it crunches just a little bit, so he pushes it around with his free hand until it clicks back into place and no more noises come from it….well for not at least. He inspects his other elbow, and other than it being red and still a little sore, it doesn’t look any worse for wear. He pokes it, and it hurts, so yeah, it’s gonna bruise. He heaves a sigh, huffing as he stretches his arms above his head, leaning back to crack his upper back. Shaking himself out makes his hair flop back down and he leaves it, not particularly caring about it being in his eyes. At least he’s cooled down a little bit. He flicks the faucet on again and leans his head under to take a long drink, clearing his throat and saying, “Ok,” to no one before stepping out of the bathroom.

      He must’ve been in there longer than he thought, because Rollins is already back in the living room, in shorts and another band t-shirt with his hair tied up just like Roman’s. The half blonde has his hands on his hips and when Dean approaches with a raised brow, he answers the unspoken question. “You and me Ambrose, let’s go.”

      Dean glances at Roman. “You need a break?” He asks.

      Roman shrugs, but doesn’t answer verbally, which makes Dean shrug in return. Rollins however drops into stance, and he offers Dean a quick smirk, “C’mon Ambrose, quit stalling.”

      Aware that Rollins is trying to goad him, Dean just smirks, falling into stance as well. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Roman step out of the way of both of them, probably content to watch and silently critique with those sharp grey eyes of his. Dean rolls his bad shoulder one more time for good measure, and when nothing clicks, he smiles wider. “You asked for it Sethie,” and attacks.

 

      Trading blows with Rollins isn’t as challenging as it is with Roman—Big Guy moves way faster than he should—but that’s probably only because Rollins can’t do the flippy big movement kinda shit he likes to do so much in their confined space. Eventually Dean’s got him down to straight punching and kicking, and since Rollins the smallest of the three of them—not by much, but just enough sometimes—he’s starting to get a little beat up too. He’s smiling though, eyes alight with challenge as he goes on the offensive again, pushing Dean back. At one point he grabs one of Dean’s hands and drops, sweeping Dean’s legs and forcing him flat on his back again. It doesn’t hurt quite as much as Roman’s power slam from earlier, but it still causes a hiss of pain to leak out of his teeth. Rollins doesn’t verbally ask if he’s ok, just squeezes the hand he hasn’t let go, something they were taught in NXT so they could nonverbally communicate whether or not they were alright in the field. Doesn’t have to be a hand, but a quick squeeze anywhere means the same thing. Dean squeezes back, and Rollins help haul him back up.

      “Tag in?” Roman asks, hands on his hips, looking rather relaxed and in his element as he watches his teammates.

      Rollins glances at Dean, a mischievous look in his eyes that for once, Dean is all for. He gives a responding smirk and a slight nod, and they both quickly gang up on Roman, who only has a second to react to both of their attacks. It doesn’t escape Dean’s notice that the Big Man looks pleased at this fact.

 

      They go back and forth between ganging up on one another as they spar. Two against one, one on one, and free for all going back and forth as they all try to one up one another. They do get in each other’s way a few times, moves being messed up due to the small space and the fact that the three of them don’t try to call maneuvers to alert each other, and they sometimes end up with stepped on toes, elbows and knees jabbed in places that probably hurt more than they meant it to. None of them seem to want to stop however, panting in exhaustion, sweat pouring down their faces and their backs as all three of their energies start to peak, and Dean is having the time of his fucking  _life_ again. Sure, it’s different to a good ‘ol fashioned street fight, more professional training and no outside weapons or blood, but it’s still fun as all hell. He almost never wants it to stop.

      All good things must come to an end however, and since Roman’s got more stamina than either Dean or Rollins somehow, the two of them decide to gang up on him again to wear him down. After a while is starts to work, each of them getting more intense and a little more desperate, until finally, Dean and Rollins perform a move that sends Roman crashing harshly and a little awkwardly onto the carpet. Dean is just about to check to see if the Big Man is ok, when a loud banging comes from underneath their feet.

      The air is tense and quiet for a moment, each Agent coiled tightly like a spring, until all three of them are laughing. None of them know who started it, but they can’t seem to stop. Even the usually reserved Roman is chuckling as he picks himself up off the ground. Dean wipes at his face and his eyes, he hasn’t had this much fun in a good long while.

      Once their laughter finally dies down, the three of them unanimously decide that it would probably be beneficial for them to stop.

 

      After all is said and done, and the three of them are left panting and sweating—but smiling—on the returned furniture, Dean lolls his head to the side to glance at Roman, who’s retying his hair back up and out of his face. “You get that out of your system now?” He asks, and Roman surprises him once again with his answer.

      “Wasn’t for me.”

      Dean blinks. “Then who the hell—”

      “For  _you_ dumbass,” Rollins interrupts from the loveseat, his feet tucked up underneath him but his head also rolled back to look up at the ceiling.

      Dean ignores the slight to focus on what Rollins had implied. “Me?” He asks, glancing back and forth between his teammates.

      “You’ve been jittery since I told you about Mr. Helmsley,” Rollins replies. He doesn’t sound angry or even annoyed about that fact, which is really rather surprising. Dean hadn’t noticed he’d really been all that jittery—he’s been  _leagues_ worse before—so it didn’t really connect until just this moment that he feels….good. A little exhausted and sore, but good. Relaxed. Better.

      Roman rolls his head over to look above Dean’s eyes. “Your leg was going a mile a minute while we were watching TV, and you were subconsciously making the rip in your jeans worse.”

      Dean looks at his jeans, and yeah, one of the rips in the right one looks worse than he remembers it being. That could have happened during their sparring though, for all he knows. His lips tighten just a little bit because he doesn’t even remember his apparent agitation. He looks back up at Roman. “For me,” he clarifies again.

      Roman nods. “You always seem to feel better after you punch something,” he explains, then shrugs. “Figured I could stand to be a human punching bag for a little bit.”

      Rollins snorts and perks his head up. “You beat  _us_ up!”

      “I said ‘a little bit’.”

      “I can’t believe the dent in the wall was the only casualty,” Dean comments idly after a moment, the pain in his elbow all but forgotten with the adrenaline rush. It’ll definitely hurt later, especially with the big fucking bruise he’s gonna develop there.

      Rollins’ head perks up again. “You dented the wall!?”

      Dean looks at Roman again, and both of them can’t help but laugh.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all like these (semi) domestic chapters with little bits of plot sprinkled in, because I really do. 
> 
> Also, thank you all so much as always for your lovely comments and giving this fic over 100 kudos! That's incredible! I can't wait to continue this story with you all.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've probably all guessed this by now, but this story is going to be LONG. We've passed 100,000 words (Holy Moly!) and we aren't even past the boy's first six months together. The pacing and the timeline in the story so far has been very tight, practically spelling out every day the Shield has together, and I want you to know that the story isn't going to stay that way (I would be writing till the end of time if I did that lol). After the Trial Period, the pacing is going to stretch, and time will pass more quickly and there will be more stretches of time between events in the story. I felt that this beginning part of the story is very important in laying the groundwork for the rest of the story, which is why I've been writing the timeline so tightly. Regardless, I hope you enjoy because we're in for the long haul, and trust me, when I said slow burn, I MEANT IT.

***

      There must have been  _ something _ , something he missed, something they all glazed over because they thought it was unimportant. It had to be. There was a line of bureaucracy when it came to missions like this, and if Punk knew anything, the more time went by in this company, the more Hunter became focused on bureaucracy. To avoid confusion and to be sure that everything is done right, rigorous minutes and plans and paperwork is passed between and down different layers of authority within the company. Everything the Shield had ever done Espionage-wise since Punk became their Mentor and Boss had come through him  _ first _ .

      Something isn’t right, Punk knows for sure.

      He spends late nights at his computer, poring over every little piece of information he can think of, eventually getting desperate enough to search through files all the way back to when the boys were first in NXT.

      It's in his searching through the NXT files, that he finds something that he almost blows over in his exhaustion and relative haste. He scrolls back, and it's a monthly schedule for the NXT recruits. Normally, this wouldn't be something that would capture his interest, but he sees, near the end of the month, that there's a day that says, 'Agent Demonstration: To be Announced.'

      Punk narrows his eyes and brings up another window and starts typing. To anyone else, this wouldn't seem out of the ordinary, but to Punk, it's the first alarm that goes off in his head. NXT is very strict with their scheduling, to create order within the recruits and inspire a sense of work ethic. The fact that it's on the schedule but hasn't been decided yet is setting off more alarms in Punk's head. In  another screen, he starts to dig for information about which Agents have signed up for possible demonstrations and also which Agents are free during that time who could potentially be ready to give one if needed. Normally Hunter wouldn't have such a thing, not liking the potential for unknown to rear it's ugly head. NXT is his baby, and he's controlling over it to the last detail, so the unannounced demonstration is severely odd and telling in Punk's eyes. Maybe it's nothing, maybe Punk is overreacting in his paranoia and exhaustion, but if he doesn't do a thorough check and this ends up leading somewhere, he's never going to forgive himself.

      Rifling through electronic files of Demonstration sign up sheets and evaluations and Agent specific schedules don't yield any similarities, and while Punk feels like he's closer to closing in on what's going on with his Boys, it also leaves something sitting heavy in his stomach. He runs a hand over his shorn hair, chewing on his lip ring, and pushes away from his computer for a moment, staring down at his desk and trying to think this through rationally. Even though his gut instinct is telling him one thing, he hasn't done enough research to justify it just yet. He can't just go off telling his Agents every little thing that he thinks could potentially be a clue to what Hunter has in store for them. He glances back at the schedule, and lets his lip ring go of his teeth, walking through a scenario in his head. If he brings this up to Hunter, as to why there's an empty spot in the NXT schedule, it's going to tip Hunter off. He can just see the older man asking him why exactly he was looking up the NXT schedule. Asking Paul probably wouldn't help in this case either, the man wily in his own ways. Regardless of who he asks, it's going to end up to Hunter and Stephanie anyways. Punk sighs and reaches for a cup of lukewarm coffee on his desk, draining the rest of it with a grimace. He's got to keep searching, he's got to be sure before he goes and plays whistleblower to his Agents. So he wheels back over to his computer and continues to dig through the NXT files, hoping that they yield even one modicum of information more that could help his Boys.   
  


 

***

      Roman is sitting on the couch, engrossed in his book, when he hears a loud swear, a bang, and harsh footsteps coming from Dean's room. He glances up, then at Seth—who had been fiddling with his phone up until this moment—before placing his bookmark into the page he was on after he exchanges a look with his teammate. It only takes a few seconds for Dean to basically kick his door out of the way so he can stomp down the hall and into the living room. He's got his phone clutched in his hand and Roman doesn't even get a chance to do more than open his mouth before Dean is talking over him, presumably to answer his unasked question of what the hell is he doing.

      "Did we just got our first paychecks as Agents?!" He shouts, and both Roman and Seth give him twin looks of confusion.

      "Yeah..." Seth says carefully, "It's about that time..."

      Dean pushes his phone out and points at it, and Roman squints, not quite able to read what he's pointing at from as far away as he is. "So this ain't a trick!?"

      Seth shakes his head at the screaming man. "What are you so freaked out about?"

      Dean steps to Seth and pushes the phone into his face. Seth rears back, probably so he can actually read what Dean's shoving into his face. Roman sets his book aside and watches as Seth's eyes scan over what Dean's showing him. He frowns and looks up at the other man. "Ambrose, don't just show me your bank account information!"

      Dean pushes the phone closer, insistent. "Read the fucking numbers, idiot."

      Seth rolls his eyes but does what Dean asks, not without a thinly veiled air of disgust about him. Roman watches as Seth reads, and is taken aback when Seth's head snaps up. "Are you serious?"

      Even though the movement Dean makes probably shouldn't be described as a shrug, it's about the closest thing that Roman can approximate the gesture to. "That's why I'm asking!" Dean exclaims.

      "Let me see," Roman finally says, offering a hand to prevent Dean from shoving the phone into his face.

      Dean hands it over readily, and Roman carefully avoids looking at too much considering it's Dean's private banking information. It would probably be prudent to remind Dean that he shouldn't be showing this information willy nilly, but Roman can't help but be a little proud of what could potentially be a show of trust. He glances down, and in big bright blue font is an amount that is considerably more than what their usual payment should be. He blinks, reading it several more times to be sure that his eyes aren't playing tricks on him.

      He himself hasn't ever really been strapped for money in his life, so the amount probably doesn't seem as insane to him, but to someone like Dean—he glances up at his teammate who is looking expectantly right back at him—this would definitely be cause for a reaction like this. "Seems like it," he confirms, handing the phone back over.

      Dean takes it and looks over the info again, like he's almost afraid that the numbers would have changed since he last looked at them, but they haven't, and a smile breaks across his face. It reaches his eyes, and Roman sees the depression of dimples just peeking out from behind Dean's stubble, and it makes a reciprocating smile stretch his own lips.

      He glances over as Seth, who is quickly typing on his own phone, probably looking to see if his payment has gone through as well. Roman doesn't reach for his own phone, he can look it up later. He watches Dean however, who's still smiling. "I mean, we're not even technically full fledged Agents yet," he says, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet as he continues to stare at the numbers. He looks up at Roman. "Can you imagine what it'll be once we are?"

      Roman's mouth quirks up in the face of Dean's excitement. It's definitely a plus, not really having to worry about financial stability while they work for WWE. A lot of people in the outside world would consider the downsides of the job—the schedule, the subject matter, and of course the potential for death—to be a big turn off, but this right here, is kind of one of the reasons that Roman's glad he's here. Here the three of them are, raised in three totally different worlds, brought together by one common denominator, Espionage. "We're officially in the Big Leagues," he says softly, and Dean's smile widens, enough to make the dimples in his cheeks bigger, and Roman can't help but feel good making his teammate smile like that.

      "We should get drinks," Dean says suddenly, perking up from his phone again. "We should absolutely get drinks!"

      Seth glances up from his own phone. "Your idea of celebrating financial stability is to spend said money on alcohol?" he says dryly, and Roman laughs once, sharply through his nose as Dean sticks his tongue out at the half blonde.

      "Absolutely Mr. Goody Two Shoes," 

      "'M not a 'Goody Two Shoes'," Seth argues weakly, grumbling slightly as he stuffs his phone back into his jeans.

      Dean rolls his eyes. "Kiss Ass, Teacher's Pet, Wet Blanket, Fun Police, whatever," he replies, then focuses his attention on Roman. "Drinks?" He prompts.

      Roman rests his head lazily back against the couch, eyeing Dean and the excitement clear on his face. They weren't allowed to have any alcohol in their system during the entire time at NXT, and ever since getting out, none of them seem to have really acknowledged the fact that they're probably allowed to do so now. Now would be as good a time as any, right? "Sure," Roman says, and Dean's dimples appear again as he smiles with his teeth.

      "See," he says, looking at Seth but pointing to Roman. "Not a Goody Two Shoes."

      Seth rolls his eyes this time. "You're wasting  _ your _ money," he says. Roman's not quite sure whether or not it was a tease, but he makes a little note in his head to come back to that at a later date.

      "You say waste, I say celebrate," Dean replies matter of factly, "And since you're being such a Fun Killer,  _ you're _ not invited." He sticks his tongue out again.

      Seth gives him a flat look. "And since you're an actual five year old and I'm an adult, I don't care."

      "You're gonna have trouble getting alcohol then," Roman says to Dean, and the tawny haired man snickers. It's a good look on him.

      "Can you please buy some for me then Big Mama Bear Roman? I promise I'll be all responsible with it." Dean asks as he leans into Roman's space, blinking rapidly as he does so. It takes the older man a second to realize that Dean is  _ actually _ trying to flutter his lashes at him, and Roman snorts, reaching up and pushing against Dean's forehead to get him out of his space. "Shut up," He says, and Dean goes willingly, snickering again.

      "Don't drink  _ too _ much," Seth says quietly from the other side of the couch, like he almost doesn't want to be heard. Like he's afraid he's going to be called a 'Goody Two Shoes' again. "Just in case—"

      Roman watches Dean's face fall as he stands up straight, and the Big Guy immediately misses the easygoing energy emanating from the younger man. "I know," he says seriously, eyeing Seth. "I don't wanna get shit faced, I just want a couple drinks."

      Seth nods, staring at his hands, which rub against his jeaned thighs. "Just wanted to get it out there," he shrugs.

      "Fun Police," Dean nods back, like he understands, and Seth frowns. He then looks at Roman. “You wanna go? Let’s go!”

      Roman can’t help but think he looks like a rather excited puppy. He’s practically wagging an invisible tail with all the wiggle bouncing he’s doing. “Sure,” He nods. “Just let me go get my coat and stuff.”

      Dean snorts as Roman stands, letting him pass into the hallway. “Delicate desert flower who withers at the first sign of cold~” He teases, and Roman offers the finger behind him, making Dean cackle loudly.

 

      After slipping on a coat and a hat, Roman comes back through the living room, where Rollins is still sitting on the couch, on his phone again. It makes Roman stop, even though Dean is practically vibrating out of his skin to get out and fucking go already. The stopping of movement is enough to catch Rollins’ attention though, and Dean watches him glance up at Roman from underneath his brows, not really moving head to do so. “You want anything?” Roman asks, and Rollins’ head moves then, his eyes a little wide with surprise.

      “Um, no...thank you,” he says politely if not a tad stilted, tapping his fingers quickly on the back of his phone and looking away like he’s wishing the both of them would just go already. Roman doesn’t seem to want to push it.

      “We’ll be back soon,” he assures. 

      “C’mon, I ain’t getting any younger and that alcohol ain’t getting any less drank with us standing here!” Dean says. Then, “Drunk, drank?”

      “Drunk, I think,” Roman replies, finally turning away from the half blonde and heading towards the door.

      As he approaches, Dean's phone suddenly rings, and all of them practically stop in their tracks. If someone was going to call them, they all know it certainly wouldn't be Dean, so something is up.

      "Who is it?" Rollins asks carefully as Dean retrieves his phone and stares at the screen, a frown on his face.

      "It's Punk," he simply replies.

      Rollins looks taken aback a little. "Why is Punk calling you?"

      "It's either with good news or bad news," Dean says, swiping to answer the phone just as Rollins tries to urgently ask him once more as to why Punk is calling  _ him _ in the first place. It tapers off into a furious whisper when Dean pulls the phone to his ear.

      "What's up Boss?"

      There's a sigh on the other line, and immediately Dean can already tell that whatever Punk is about to tell him, isn't going to be good. "I've got some information about the Enforcer Operation," he says. He sounds tired, more tired than Dean has ever heard him sound before, and red flags immediately start going up in Dean's brain.

      He glances at Rollins who's frowning deeply and staring right at him, like he's trying his very hardest not to yell but also to listen as best as he can while Dean talks. By Punk's tone, whatever news he has doesn't sound good. "Yeah?" Is all Dean says, because faking pleasantries and a conversation won't benefit anyone.

      "I originally thought this was nothing more than a hunch, and that there was something else it could potentially be but..." Punk says, then sighs again, like he's trying to delay the inevitable news. "The more I looked into it, the more this hunch started to become a real possibility, and with the info I've accessed today, it seems like I was right."

      Dean grimaces. "If you didn't want to be right, then I can assume this news is gonna be something I don't like."

      There's silence on the other line for longer than Dean would like to hear, and he honestly almost thinks that Punk's hung up on him, but the man speaks finally, his voiced pained as if revealing this information actually  _ hurts _ him. "It's NXT," he says. "Your Enforcer Operation is against NXT."

      "What." Dean asks so flatly that it doesn't even really sound like a question. He glances up at Rollins, who looks like he's about ready to rip the phone from Dean's hand so he can know what's going on. He looks less angry now, more anxious as he hangs on every word Dean says and every word he can hear from Punk.

      "I went looking through everything I could possibly think of, trying to find anything that could have been a clue leading to your Mission," Punk explains. "It eventually led me to your NXT files since I wanted to be a thorough as I could."

      "What did you find?" Dean asks, easily following the narrative.

      "A schedule, for NXT, with a date near the end of the month marked, 'Agent Demonstration: To Be Announced'," Punk explains, and the more he talks, the more heaviness starts to settle in Dean's gut. "You know as well as I do that NXT has everything planned to the last detail usually months in advance, so this struck me as very odd."

      "Tell me about it," Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair.

      "What is he saying?!" Rollins whispers harshly, and Dean throws a look at him, holding up one finger as Punk continues to talk.

      "So I went looking, and long story short, from what I can tell it makes sense that that demonstration is going to be you. The fact that Hunter is calling it an Enforcer Operation has me worried."

      "You think they're going to have us attack NXT?" Dean asks, and Rollins just about rattles the windows when he shouts.

      " _ What?! _ "

      Dean shoots him another look, and Roman puts a hand on Rollins’ shoulder, either to calm him down or to try to prevent the half blonde from leaping forward and stealing the phone right out of Dean's hands.

      Punk must've heard the shout—who in their complex hadn't really?—and he says, "Are the others with you?"

      "Yeah."

      "Put me on speaker then, you should all hear what's going on."

      Dean nods, and it takes him a second, but he eventually manages to put Punk on speaker, holding out the phone so they all can hear. "Ok, go ahead," he prompts, and Punk starts again.

      "There is an incredibly real chance that your Enforcer Operation is against NXT," he explains carefully, not sounding any more pleased saying it again than he did the first time.

      "That doesn't make any sense, why would he have us attack NXT? As far as I know they haven't done anything to warrant an attack from us," Rollins says, shaking his head at the phone even though Punk can't see it.

      "It was marked as a demonstration, right Boss?" Roman asks, "Is there a possibility that it  _ is  _ just that?"

      Before Punk can even answer, Rollins interrupts. "Then why would Mr. Helmsley specifically tell me that it was an Enforcer Operation?"

      "My point exactly," Punk responds. "So from all of the evidence you've given me and from what I've managed to dig up, attacking NXT seems like the most logical option."

      "Even though it makes no damn sense," Dean sneers, glancing up at Rollins. "Happy now, Rollins? Agreeing to be Enforcers have got us taking out the recruits."

      Rollins shakes his head more, frowning in disbelief. "It  _ doesn’t _ make sense," he agrees. "If it was just a demonstration, then why would he call it an Operation? And if it was centered around NXT, why would he say he needed more time gathering information?"

      "Whatever's going on," Roman replies, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's not adding up."

      "It's all I have to offer at this point boys," Punk says, sounding apologetic. He's got nothing to be sorry for in Dean's opinion. Without him, they would have been agreeing to do whatever bullshit Triple H is planning against NXT without knowing what the fuck is going on.

      "Real glad you didn't agree for us to do this before we knew this shit was waitin' for us," Dean sneers, only half sarcastic as he glares at Rollins.

      "Oh get off it, I already apologized!" Rollins scowls.

      "I think this is cause for more than a fucking apology!" Dean says, pointing at the phone still in his other hand.

      " _ Dean, Seth _ !" Punk shouts from the other line, causing both of the scolded Agents to snap their mouths shut. "Do you  _ really _ think this is the time for arguing?"

      Both of the men are still frowning and glaring daggers at one another, but they both reply with quiet, "No's".

      "We need to find a way to straighten this all out," Punk continues. "I would go to Hunter myself but it would give far too much away as it is."

      "So what do you think we should do?" Roman asks calmly, shooting looks at both Dean and Rollins. Dean glances away and his frown deepens. Punk's right, but that doesn't mean he has to admit it, or hell, even like it.

      Rollins at least seems to have come down from his fucking high horse. Dean watches as he rubs his hands together, seemingly trying to think of some sort of answer to this fucking dilemma he's put them all in. "I mean,  _ I _ could talk to Mr. Helmsey?" He suggests, not sounding entirely sure with himself.

      "How the fuck do you think that'll help?" Dean snarls, and before Rollins can open his mouth to shoot something back at Dean, Roman intervenes.

      "Shut up," he says to Dean, then gestures for Rollins to continue. Bastard.

      Rollins sighs. "Mr. Helmsley's waiting for my call as it is. I think that maybe if I set up another meeting with him that I can get this whole mess straightened."

      Dean scoffs. "Alone?"

      Roman shoots him another sharp look, but Dean ignores it and just gives him the finger. He's pissed goddammit, and he has a right to fucking know and have an opinion about this whole fucking mess. 

      "You have any better idea?" Rollins asks, opening his arms wide as if he’s waiting for said ideas. "Without raising suspicion or getting anyone in hot water that sounds like the most viable option to me at this point." He gestures around. "Unless someone else has a suggestion."

 

      Silence stretches between the four Agents, the Shield members each looking at one another, as if someone is going to miraculously come up with an answer that'll make all of this all right or make it all go away. It's Punk who finally breaks the silence with a beleaguered sigh. "It's your best bet," he says softly, almost like he's admitting defeat. "I'm sorry boys, you know all this wasn't what I wanted for you—"

      " _ Hey _ ," Dean interrupts. "Like  _ we  _ said, none of this is your fault."

      "We'll figure this out," Roman agrees. "Thank you for all your hard work getting that information."

      Punk scoffs over the line, and Dean can practically hear the eye roll. "You boys are alright," he says, and he sounds maybe just a little more alive than before. "I keep forgetting you're Agents now, you can handle yourselves."

      Rollins cuts in, with surprising eagerness. "But we always appreciate any guidance you can give us, Boss."

      Dean rolls his eyes now. "Kiss ass."

      “I should let you boys go,” Punk says. “Let me know how everything pans out, or if you need anymore help.”

      “Thanks a million, Boss,” Dean replies, before a quiet click and a little trill sounds, signifying the end of the call.

      The three of them kind of stare at the phone for almost a minute afterwards, almost not wanting to break the moment, because they all know when they do, they’re going to have to confront the inevitable...Triple H.

      Rollins is the first to break away, and he raises his phone up to look at it. “Are you going to call now?” Roman asks, even though the answer is glaringly obvious.

      “Better to get it over with,” Rollins says with a sigh, staring at his phone again for one long minute, before finally thumbing in the number. Dean and Roman both watch as he places the phone to his ear and puts on a stony face that Dean could dare say looks almost determined?

      While Dean can’t hear what’s going on on the other line, he can imagine the ringing, and can feel the slight nerves. The want for the phone to be answered but the fear that it will be, and the hope that they won’t answer but the knowledge that the call must be made eventually.

      They all sit in silence, waiting. Finally, someone must answer, since Rollins’ face perks up. “Hello yes, Mr. Helmsley?”

      Dean’s eyes narrow. A direct line to Triple H? He doesn’t get much time to ruminate on that thought however, since Rollins continues to speak.

      The man clears his throat and looks, embarrassed? What he says next certainly explains why. “Yes, Hunter, sorry. Yes it’s Agent Rollins.”

      Dean’s narrowed eyes shoot open, and he shares a glance with Roman, who looks like he’s following the same trail of thought Dean is. What in the hell went on in that first meeting that Rollins is now being asked to call Triple H by his first name and somehow has a direct call line to him.

      Those are questions probably best left for another day, considering the circumstances they’re in at the current moment, but they aren’t something that Dean is going to forget. Rollins has some explaining to do when all is said and done.

      “About that,” Rollins continues, and Dean really wishes that they could put this on speaker phone, but he knows himself, and he thinks he knows enough about Triple H that if the big man was ever to find out that they were listening in on a phone call without his knowledge, then there would be hell to pay. And Dean can’t guarantee he wouldn’t give it away if he was able to hear what Triple H was saying. “There’s something that I wanted to talk to you about, Sir.” Rollins says, then more tightly, “Something that I believe would be better discussed in person.”

      There is a stretch of silence where Rollins is listening carefully to the other line, and Dean itches to inch closer to see if he can just maybe hear what Helmsley is saying. He shifts, and a hand descends on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Dean’s head snaps over to Roman, who offers him a meaningful look. The big Samoan mouths something, and while Dean’s lip reading is a little rusty, he can sort of gleam what Roman had said.

_       ‘You were fidgeting’ _

      Dean doesn’t shake his hand away, rather turns his attention back to Rollins, whose voice has gone even tighter. “I’ve come across some information about the Enforcer Operation that I would like to discuss with you. If it’s all the same to you Sir, as I said before I would like to speak about it in person.” More silence, then Rollins’ eyes widen. “N-Now?”

      Dean flinches just a little at the stutter. Not good. Definitely not good.

      “Yes, of course. Right away Sir.” Rollins’ voice is nothing but polite and professional, but the look on his face is sour and unhappy. “Thank you...Hunter.” He adds, his voice a tinge awkward at saying their boss’ name. He hangs up then, pulling the phone away and snapping his eyes shut and tilting his head at the ceiling, letting out a deep and prolonged sigh.

      “‘Hunter?’” Dean asks, because  _ seriously _ ?

      Rollins has the decency to at least look uncomfortable once he opens his eyes and looks at Dean, cringing at the question. “Yeah, he—um—asked me to call him that,” he replies, itching at his beard absently. “It’s weird. He didn’t sound pleased,” he adds, trying to detract from what Dean had brought up probably.

      “So he’s calling you in now,” it’s phrased as a question, but it certainly doesn’t sound that way when it comes out of Roman’s mouth. Rollins nods once, tightly. “Alone.” Again, it doesn’t sound like a question even though it should. It gets Roman the same answer.

      “You can do this, right?” Dean asks after a second, because Rollins actually looks a little uneasy. It’s not a look he normally sees on his teammate’s face and as loathe as he is to admit it, he doesn’t like to see it. Rollins is almost always assured in what he’s doing, having information and planning down to the smallest detail. But with all this shenanigans with Triple H, it looks to have thrown the half blonde off his game, and that’s not a good fucking sign.

      Rollins’ face hardens then, focusing on the task at hand with what hopes to be his normal intensity. He looks at Dean. “I’m gonna get to the bottom of this, I promise.”

      With that look, something in Dean may actually sort of believe him.

 

***

      This time, the long haul up the elevator is more fear inducing than it ever has been. Suddenly Seth understands what Ambrose was mumbling about when they first went to Mr. Helmsley's office what seems like forever and a half ago. Now, it truly feels like he's trudging up to the hangman's noose. Mr. Helmsley's voice didn't sound  _ angry  _ on the phone per say, but the way that he had immediately called Seth in did not bode well. Mr. Helmsley knew something was up, and now Seth is going to have to deal with that. As always, the elevator opens to the waiting area, and Renee looks up from her computer. He steps out, and as soon as she sees him, her eyes widen and her mouth drops open just a little bit. Seth tries to hide his grimace, because even though that face absolutely doesn't make him feel better in the least, it's not her fault really. If that face is any indication, Mr. Helmsley is definitely not happy.

      He approaches her, and she actually stands, and the pit in Seth stomach just gets deeper and deeper. "It's  _ you _ ?" She whispers furiously.

      He doesn't even have it in him to make a joke. "Apparently, yeah," he agrees, despite the fact that he's not even one hundred percent sure what she's meaning.

      She sighs and glances towards the large door behind her. "He's not happy," she warns, her voice still low.

      Seth's lips stretch into a thin line. "I figured."

      Renee must notice his face, since she leans forward, offering placating hands. "He's not  _ angry _ ," she amends carefully, still standing, fidgeting a little bit even. "He just seems—" she gestures, rotating her hands around one another in the air as she searches for the word.

      "Irritated?" Seth guesses, and she looks back up at him, and nods.

      "Irritated," she agrees.

      Heaving a great sigh, Seth offers his ID. "Might as well get this over with so that I don't make it any worse."

      Renee nods, taking the ID and sitting down, quickly scanning it and typing furiously away at her computer. As she hands back his ID, she reaches up to her headset. "Mr. Helmsley, Agent Rollins is here."

      There's an answer Seth can't hear, but the little twitch in Renee's eye gives away leagues. She takes her hand away and nods. Biting her lip, she gestures with her head that he's alright to head into the office. Seth swallows. "Thank you," he murmurs.

      "Break a leg," she whispers back.

      Seth offers a weak, not at all believable smile, and tries not to think about actual breaking of bones. 

 

      When he enters the office like he feels he’s done far too many times lately, Mr. Helmsley is sitting—as always—poised at his desk. He’s not, however, doing paperwork as before, but sitting; laid back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other, ankle to knee, and with his hands clasped together on top of that.

      He was waiting.

      Seth swallows roughly but forges ahead. “Seth, you got here in good time,” Mr. Helmsley says, gesturing for the younger man to sit down before lacing his hands back together in his lap. Seth does without argument. “I appreciate that.”

      “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to see me,” Seth offers in return, wary and not falling for the pleasantries spilling out of Mr. Helmsley’s mouth for a second. It also doesn’t escape Seth that the older man did not offer a hand to shake, and it may be making a mountain out of a molehill, but the omission seems deliberate. Nevertheless, Mr. Helmsley does purse his lips and shake his head lightly as if this whole thing is no big deal, which Seth knows for a  _ fact  _ is not. 

      “So, what information did you happen to come across that you so desperately needed to talk to me in person about?” The COO asks, his voice slightly more terse than before, but enough for Seth to notice. Alright, if the man wants to get right down to business, then Seth isn’t going to be pulling any punches. He looks Mr. Helmsley dead in the eyes, and with a confidence he doesn’t necessarily feel but has been trained to show in confrontations such as these, says, “Is it true that we’re going to be attacking the NXT recruits?”

      Mr. Helmsley doesn’t break eye contact with him, but his head does rear back for a single moment, before a smile that Seth  _ does not like _ , graces the older man’s features as he leans forward. “Now where would you find out something like that?” He asks softly, carefully, and Seth knows bait when he sees it. So he forges on, not falling for it for a second.

      He shakes his head. “I don’t understand Mr. Helmsley,” he says honestly. “I don’t understand why you told me you needed to gather more information before even telling me what was going on.”

      Mr. Helmsley’s pleasant demeanor drops, just a little bit, but enough that Seth’s fight or flight instincts rear their ugly heads at him. Mr. Helmsley’s eyes fill with ice for just a moment, fixating on Seth. Then, the look is gone in an instant, so quickly that Seth has a hard time believing it even happened in the first place, but there’s a shiver, up and down his spine that indicates that no, even with how well Mr. Helmsley hides what he’s truly thinking, Seth is walking on thin ice.

      An easygoing smile spreads across Mr. Helmsley’s lips, but it reaches his eyes, so Seth honestly has a hard time knowing if it’s genuine or not. He swallows harshly when Mr. Helmsley decides to speak. “We  _ did _ need more time to gather information, Seth,” is all he says, no explanation, like if he denies what Seth has said enough that it won’t matter, that Seth can’t argue.

      It makes Seth openly frown. He can’t believe that his Boss is trying to pretend like nothing’s changed about this. “I would have liked to have heard what the mission was from you rather than Punk figuring it out for us,” he almost snaps, and he instantly knows it was the wrong thing to say when the ice comes back into Mr. Helmsley’s eyes.

      “While  _ Punk’s  _ luck may have led him to the right conclusion this time, there could be a time in the future where it doesn’t.” Mr. Helmsley’s tone isn’t cruel per say, just sharper as he addresses Seth. His hands are clasped tightly on the desktop in front of him. “Information gets passed through the ranks and the company at the pace that it does for a  _ reason _ , Seth. I meant what I said. More information was needed before addressing the content of the mission with you.”

      Seth’s self preservation skills must be lacking today, because he idiotically speaks up. “I just  _ don’t _ understand Sir, you couldn’t have just told me that we were going to be attacking NXT—”

      “A  _ demonstration _ .” Mr. Helmsley’s tone is clipped, sharp when he interrupts Seth. The half blonde swallows and tries not to let his eyes shift away in an act of cowardice. Thankfully—or not, Seth isn’t quite sure—Mr. Helmsley sighs and his tone softens. He leans back in his chair a little. “The reason I didn’t tell you was because we were still in the stages of evaluation where we truly didn’t know whether or not the NXT recruits would be prepared for that type of demonstration. Normally I wouldn’t have wasted your time or my own discussing an operation until it was assured to happen. I told you because I wanted you to be in the know, Seth.”

      Guilt rises up in his chest a little. Alright, coming from Mr. Helmsley’s angle, it sounds a lot less urgent and sinister. It makes sense, since NXT recruits are constantly being evaluated on their progress. This all came about because Mr. Helmsley was trying to be kind and he….he overreacted. They all did. He finally tears his gaze away to look at his own hands, folded into his lap. “Forgive me Sir.”

      A tired sigh slides out of Mr. Helmsley. Seth glances up, expecting more anger or terseness, but Mr. Helmsley is looking at him….ruefully?

      “I understand where you’re coming from Seth. You and I are very similar in the regard that we like to know what’s going on and have as much information at our disposal at any given moment.” The elder man gestures vaguely. “I see that now, and I apologize for not seeing it earlier. If I were in your shoes I probably would have tried to the same thing and try to figure out what was going on.”

      Seth shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologize to me Mr. Helmsley.”

      “Hunter,” said man reminds.

      It’s weird for him to say it, but Seth does anyway. “Hunter,” he nods.

      “This Operation is a preventative measure or sorts,” his Boss explains carefully. “You  _ know  _ how NXT recruits are. Most, if not all, look up to the senior Agents working for WWE. I want to be sure that following the footsteps of someone like John Cena,  _ isn’t _ tolerated. I want them to understand right off the bat that there are consequences if they decide that they know better than the company,” He reaches to place a hand on Seth’s arm, and Seth swallows, looking at it before looking back up at Mr. Helmsley, who’s leaned in a touch. “And that those consequences are the responsibility of The Shield.”

      Seth swallows again. That’s a—a responsibility that Seth hadn’t even thought of up until now, and it’s—it’s a lot to think about. “I’m sorry, Mr.—Hunter,” he corrects himself so Mr. Helmsley doesn’t do it a second time. “Thank you for entrusting me with all of this.”

      Mr. Helmsley pulls away, a wry smile on his face. “Like I said Seth, you have the makings of an incredible Agent. I want you and your boys to succeed.”

      “Thank you.”

      “Next time, if you have questions or concerns about a mission, you come ask me directly, alright?”

      Despite the fact that it’s phrased like a question, a request, Seth knows an dismissive order when he hears one.

      “Yes, Sir.”

  
  


***

      When Seth quietly closes the door to the apartment about an hour later, Ambrose and Reigns are sitting on the couch with drinks in their hands, watching something on television. He sighs, squaring his shoulders and trying not to let them sag too much. He doesn't want to talk anymore, had enough of that with Mr. Helmsley, but he knows that the second that his teammates see them, that they're going to want answers. For a fleeting moment, Seth wonders whether or not he could possibly get away with lying to them and saying that Mr. Helmsley didn't have any other information for him, but it passes, knowing that his teammates deserve to know, despite the fact that it's probably not something they're going to want to hear. Seth can already see Ambrose going off again, and he sighs through his nose, not looking forward to any of it. With a deep breath, he steps forward into the apartment, and into a potential minefield.

      Ambrose is the first to notice him of course from his favorite seat, glancing up from the television to see Seth stepping out of the entryway and into the living room. "You're back," he says, and Seth sees his eyes flicking over Seth's body, like Ambrose can get a read on what's going on just by looking at him. Honestly, that would make this whole damn thing a hell of a lot easier on all of them, but Ambrose just narrows his eyes at him, the grip on his beer getting a little bit tighter. Seth doesn't sit down, doesn't even take off his heavy coat, just stands there, on the cusp of the living room, preemptively hating the fight he knows is about to happen. He swallows when Reigns turns his attention to him, and Seth nods apropos of nothing. "I'm back," he finally says.

      "I'm not gonna like what you have to say, am I?" Ambrose asks flatly, like he was expecting something like this all along. He probably was, considering he was the one to call Punk in the first place.

      Seth finally gets the will to move, and he goes to take off his jacket, hanging it on the hook in the entryway next to Ambrose's leather one. "Probably not," he affirms, stripping his gloves off as well and stuffing them into the pockets of the jacket.

      "We can wait," Reigns says, always offering a way out, but as much as Seth wants to take that route, to take the easy way and just wait to talk about this, he knows he can't. He needs to get this out because they need to decide what to do, because he still hasn't given Mr. Helmsley his answer.....if they even get a choice to give an answer now.

      "No," he replies, turning back to the living room. "You deserve to know now."

      Sitting down on the armchair, not wanting to be close enough to the others to touch, Seth takes a breath, closing his eyes, and opening them as he exhales. "Punk was right," he starts, figuring it's the easiest way to do so.

      Dean shakes his head, his lips a quirked frown. "Knew it," he says, taking a prolonged sip from his beer.

      "To a point," Seth finishes, not really bothered at this point that Ambrose had interrupted him.

      "What do you mean?" Reigns asks, always the one to get to the bottom of everything as clearly as he can.

      Seth tries to relax against the chair, but fidgets, unable to find any comfort. "Punk was right, our Enforcer Operation does involve NXT."

      "Son of a fucking  _ bitch _ ," Ambrose curses, "Gonna have us attacking—"

      "But it's more of a demonstration," Seth finishes again, not even bothering to admonish Ambrose for talking over him again.

      Reigns raises a brow at him, abandoning his beer on the coffee table to lean forward with his forearms resting against his thighs. "So why did Triple H call it an Enforcer Operation?"

      Seth shrugs.

      "You didn't ask?" Ambrose sneers, and Seth's eyes turn to him.

      "Wasn't really given the opportunity to ask," he replies flatly.

      That seems to pique Ambrose's interest. "Are we in trouble?"

      Seth almost wants to tell him yes. He narrows his eyes at Ambrose for a few seconds, then tears his gaze away. "No, I don't think so," he replies.

      "Can you tell us what happened?" Reigns says, voice sounding a little tight. Seth can understand that. He just wants to know what's going on, and the way that Seth is telling it right now probably isn't all that helpful. So he takes a deep breath, adjusts in his seat, and starts from the beginning.

      "Mr. Helmsley called me in after I spoke with him on the phone, that much you know." At the nods from his teammates, he continues. "I got there, and when Renee saw that it was me, she looked surprised, asked, 'It's  _ you _ ?' and I knew immediately that Mr. Helmsley wasn't happy about the phone call."

      "He can shove it up his ass," Ambrose growls, taking another pointed drink.

      "What happened next?" Reigns gently prompted, even though the look on his face warranted none of said gentleness.

      "I went in, and while Mr. Helmsley wasn't anything other than professional, I could tell something was off. He wasn't happy," Seth says, remembering the icy look in Mr. Helmsley's eyes. "It started off with pleasantries, you know how he does—" the others nod, "—and eventually he asked me what information I learned about the operation."

      "He obviously wasn't happy that we gained access to information that wasn't through him," Reigns concludes, and Seth nods.

      "Among other things," He confirms. "So I ask him if it's true, if we're going to be attacking NXT."

      "And?" Ambrose asks, obviously not content with the pacing of the retelling. He can shove it up his  _ own  _ ass.

      "He looked....rather surprised really," Seth remembers, even though in the moment he hasn't really registered it, too mired in his own anxiousness about the whole thing to really take it in at the time.

“Surprised at the implication or surprised that we had figured it out?” Reigns prods, and Seth shrugs with one shoulder, his lips flattening into a line as he tries to find the right word.

      “Maybe a little bit of both?” He concedes with a single nod.

      “Why does it matter if he was surprised about the implication, it turned out to be true regardless,” Ambrose observes, throwing himself up suddenly, taking a few long strides towards the kitchen.  Seth ignores him in favor of Reigns, who is actually taking in and caring about all of the information like a good fucking Agent would.

      “He recovered quickly, and asked me where in the world I would have found something like that out,” Seth explains tiredly, leaning to cradle his chin in one of his hands, resting the elbow on the armrest of the chair.

“Trying to wheedle out a nark,” Ambrose comments from the kitchen. He’s clinking around in there for who knows what, and Seth would just rather him sit down, shut up and listen so Seth can fucking continue with the story.

“Did you tell him about Punk?” Reigns asks carefully, the slight tinge in his voice tipping Seth off to the fact that Reigns probably hoped that he didn’t. A small mass of guilt weighs down his stomach, and he tries valiantly to swallow against it.

Seth breathes. “I didn’t want to. I figured lying would just end us up in more hot water than anything,” he says, avoiding Reigns’ no doubt disappointed expression. “I don’t think there’s anything Mr. Helmsley couldn’t find out if he really set his mind to it.”

“You’re probably right about that.” Ambrose appears next to him suddenly, and Seth jerks a glance up at him. The tawny haired man offers up a bottle, and Seth blinks at it, then back at Ambrose, who just gestures with the bottle. “You look like you need it,” the taller man replies when Seth throws a questioning brow this way.

      Seth carefully takes it, wary because Ambrose offered him something seemingly without expecting anything in return, trying not to act on the knee jerk response to ask Ambrose what the hell is angle is with this. Said man doesn’t say anything more, simply strolls back over to his seat with his own beer, curling up into it and focusing back on Seth. “Thanks,” the half blonde murmurs, because for some reason he feels like he should. He doesn’t take a drink of the beer—Ambrose had even opened it—instead he continues where he left off. “At this point, Mr. Helmsley still hadn’t confirmed whether or not what Punk had told us was true, so I tried to get him to be straight with me—”

      Ambrose snorts into his bottle before he swigs. “Bet  _ that _ worked out real well,” he says after he’s finished swallowing, a half pleased, half annoyed look on his face. Seth can’t help but wonder whether or not the look is aimed at him. He rolls his eyes in response.

      “Tell me about it,” he mutters.

      "Unfortunately he kept dodging around the issue, not really confirming whether or not what I was asking was true," Seth continues. "And eventually I just got tired of tiptoeing around it. So I told him straight that I would have liked to have heard it from him directly instead of Punk figuring it out for us."

      Both his teammates flinch just slightly, and Seth does as well. It probably wasn't the most tactful thing he could have done, and he could have framed it around Punk better, but it had been said already, so there wasn't much he could really do now, especially considering he hadn't thought much about it in the moment.

      "How'd that work out for you?" Ambrose asks with a snort.

      Seth blinks slowly at him and runs a thumb over the label of the beer without looking at it. "About as well as you'd think."

      His tawny haired teammate leans forward in interest now, an amused smile on his face. "Did he yell?" He asks, probably a little too excited at the fact that Seth potentially got yelled at. Seth glosses over the fact in favor of continuing the story.

      "No," he denies. "Tone got all sharp with me and his eyes got cold REAL fast."

      Ambrose leans back in his chair again. "Damn," he says, only sounding mildly disappointed at the fact that Mr. Helmsley hadn't ripped him a new one.

      Seth forges on. “He actually got angry with me, I could tell, but he didn’t really let it show other than with his eyes or his voice.”

      “Wonder why. Triple H doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would hold back if he was angry with you,” Reigns comments, and Seth shrugs, honestly about as confused as any of them.

      "He told me that while going to Punk may have led to the right conclusion this time, there might be a time where it doesn't."

      "Oh sure, take all the blame off of himself," Ambrose murmurs icily into his drink.

      "At this point I still didn't understand because he's been deflecting this whole time, and I asked him why he couldn't have just told us we were attacking NXT, and he interrupts me and corrects me, saying that it's a demonstration." Ambrose shakes his head and rolls his eyes, like he can't believe his ears, and Seth sighs through his nose, ready to get to the part that he knows Ambrose isn't going to like. He's not so sure about Reigns though—he throws a glance that way—since he's been so adamant about getting the whole story instead of injecting little comments here and there like Ambrose has. "But then he kind of backs down, and finally tells me what's going on."

      "And that is?" Reigns says.

      "The reason he didn't tell me is because they were—and probably still are—in the stages of evaluation with the recruits. They didn't know whether or not they would be prepared for this type of demonstration." He gestures between the three of them, "He said he wouldn't have wasted both our times discussing a mission until it was absolutely going to happen. He apparently told me because he wanted me—and us—to be in the know of what's happening." 

      “So that’s all it really is, a demonstration,” Reigns says, and Seth can’t quite tell whether or not the Big Man believes it as it comes out of his mouth.

      Ambrose's face falls flat. "A demonstration," he says, standing now, his arms crossed over his chest. By Seth's eyes, he looks about a minute away from pacing, but the taller man is holding himself still, tense and pulled tightly like a spring. It's telling, considering the man is almost constantly in motion. "You seriously expect me to believe that the attack on NXT is anything other than that?"

      Seth rises to the challenge, sitting up straighter in his chair. "And why not? NXT for us wasn't that long ago, or did you forget?" He admonishes, and one side of Ambrose's lips curl up, just a fraction. "We had demonstrations from more seasoned Agents, try to tell  _ me  _ that that didn't work in the long run, tell me you didn't learn anything from that."

      "This is a hell of a lot different and you know it." Ambrose practically spits. Seth watches with a small sick sense of satisfaction of being right when Ambrose does move, starting to pace back and forth with only a few steps between each turn. "Don't try to pull this, 'What Triple H is asking us to do is  _ actually _ beneficial' card on me, I'm not stupid," He hisses. "I see exactly what he's trying to do, he's having us beat up recruits to fulfill his sick sense of control over everything."

      Seth just shakes his head, like he can't believe that Ambrose could be so short sighted. "You don't even see the bigger picture here, this is going to benefit  _ us  _ in the long run too."

      Reigns decides to join into the conversation again. "What do you mean?" He carefully asks. He looks less tense than before, but with him, that could mean anything.

      "Mr. Helmsley explained it to me. Everything we're doing is non lethal, hell probably not even worse than any of the other times recruits get beat up in NXT," Seth points out, throwing his hands up slightly in exasperation. "This is a learning experience for them, as well as a preventative measure.”

      "Preventative of what, free will?" Ambrose scoffs. 

      Seth rolls his eyes so hard it almost gives him a headache. "Will you just  _ listen  _ please? Every NXT recruit or anyone that's ever tried to get into WWE has had idols, people that inspire them to get into this business in the first place. Just follow me here. Who is one of the biggest men in the entire company right now?"

      "Cena," Ambrose shrugs. "So what?"

      "And who believes that his opinions and actions matter more than anyone else's in this company?" The half blonde leads, hoping that the other men will just get the damn hint already.

      "Cena," Reigns replies quietly, thankfully seeing where Seth is going.

      "Mr. Helmsley is  _ literally _ just trying to do damage control—" Seth puts his hands flatly together and points them at Ambrose, trying to pull the man's focus towards him, "—So the recruits don't start to think that they can just waltz into the company and start acting like Cena without any consequences."

      "And they can't just get rid Cena, he knows too much and he's too valuable," Reigns says with a heavy sigh, pushing his hair up and out of his eyes with an exhausted motion.

      Ambrose actually stops his pacing, but he puts one of his hands to his mouth, chewing on the side of his thumb. "You said doing this would be beneficial to us specifically," he says after a moment, taking his hand away from his mouth. "How?"

      "If we do this, we show the recruits that there are rules and there are consequences to their actions if they choose to believe that Cena's route it the way to go. If we put that into their heads  _ now _ , instead of later, it's more likely we're not going to have as many Enforcer Operations to deal with," Seth says, trying to speak slowly and clearly and with enough intention that maybe, just maybe this'll get through Ambrose's thick fucking skull. "If we do this  _ now _ , it'll curb everything, and in the long run...maybe, just maybe....they won't need us to even  _ be  _ Enforcers anymore.

      "Preventative foresight," Reigns concludes.

      "Exactly."

      Ambrose narrows his eyes at Seth, and the half blonde is pleased to see that he looks as though he's actually thinking hard on this. Whether or not he's trying to think of another way to poke holes in his theory once again is another thing entirely.

      "Tell me this is any worse than any of the surprise drills we had in NXT," Seth tries again, because he knows it's the truth. They had some terrible surprises in NXT, but it prepared them for anything, prepared them for working where they are now.

      Ambrose's face sours a little, not quite angry, but like he's realizing that Seth is right once again. At least the man's finally coming to that conclusion. Whether or not he accepts it, is another thing."If this is all true, and that's all this—" Ambrose says, using an all encompassing gesture with one hand, "—is...then there needs to be some serious planning on our part. I ain't about to go in there without a plan."

      Seth's mouth quirks up and he takes an impetuous sip of the beer, which earns him slightly wide eyes and raised brows from both of his teammates. The beer doesn't even taste all that bad, considering it's something that Ambrose had undoubtedly bought. "Well it's a damn good thing that's my specialty then, isn't it?" He says with a tired smirk.

      It's good to know at least their on the same page again.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was very dialogue driven but I feel like it's important sometimes for people to talk things out lol.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to again thank all of those who read, comment, and have left kudos on this fic, you all truly make it so fun to write!
> 
> Unfortunately, due to the fact of how busy my schedule is, I've decided to take a hiatus from this fic for the month of July. Regularly scheduled updates will be back around August 10th/11th. I hope you all understand, and thank you again!

   ***

  "So you're thinking ambush," Ambrose says thoughtfully, leaning against the back of the couch, his arms crossed over his chest.

      From the kitchen, Seth carefully chops vegetables before adding them to pot of stew, stirring them all occasionally so there's an even distribution. "I think it's the safest and quickest way to take out as many of them as possible as quickly as possible," he replies simply, placing the lid back down on pot and flicking the burner down so he can attend to the loaf of garlic bread.

      "Even if they're aware of the 'Demonstration'?" Reigns asks from the table, where he's carefully arranging plates and glasses.

      Seth frowns at Reigns' tone and the implication that he still doesn't quite believe that's all the mission is. In all fairness though, all of the information surrounding it has really just been that for the Big Man; pieces floating around or coming through a grapevine and not directly from the source. Seth can imagine how skeptical and irritating that can be. "I'm actually fairly certain that they're only aware that there IS in fact a demonstration, and not aware of _what_  the demonstration is going to be about," he replies truthfully, sliding the prepared garlic bread into the oven. From what he learned from Mr. Helmsley, it seems like that's the most logical assumption. "That gives us an advantage," he adds as he closes the oven door.

      Ambrose scoffs from his perch. "Small advantage."

      "But an advantage nonetheless," Reigns acknowledges. "Come help with the silverware," he says then, and even though Seth can't see who he's talking to, since he's working on the actual food part of dinner, he suspects that Reigns is talking to Ambrose, who is just standing there observing. Seth gives a miniature roll of the eyes.

      "As usual," he mutters under his breath.

      "Sure sure," Ambrose says, pushing off of the couch and striding into the kitchen. The silverware drawer is right next to the oven where Seth is working, and the half blonde watches as Ambrose throws the drawer open and grabs three spoons and nothing else.

      "Grab forks too," Seth says, and Ambrose gives him a look.

      "Why?" He replies, glancing at the stew, then at Rollins like the man has lost his damn mind.

      "I'm making a salad too," Seth replies, stirring the stew and testing the thickness of the broth. Shouldn't be too long now.

      "Didn't think you really knew how to make anything but nasty healthy shit," Ambrose observes idly. It makes Seth stop in his stirring and glance skywards, like maybe any power in the universe would save him from this man.

      "If you must know, it's my Mom's recipe," he replies tightly, stirring maybe a little harder than he needs to.

      Ambrose doesn't speak for a moment, and Seth refuses to look at him. Ambrose does eventually say something, and there's none of the snark he usually holds in his voice when he's talking to Seth. "Feeling homesick?"

      Seth actually does glance at him now. He's got spoons _and_ forks in his hands looks rather curious. "Yeah, thought it would be nice," Seth mutters, a flush creeping to his cheeks. He shrugs, because that's all the explanation he really has.

      "Kay," Ambrose replies, like that's the end of it. He scootches behind Seth with a quiet, "'Scuse me," instead of going the long way to get to the table.

      It makes Seth frown, but not for the normal reasons involving Ambrose. He almost feels like he's being tricked, that Ambrose is going to keep this information tucked away and pull it out for their next argument. Seth can't really foresee an opportunity like that ever working out, but if there's a will, Ambrose will probably find a way.

      Seth tries to push the strange interaction away, doing his best to focus on finishing the food more than anything else. He gives a tiny smirk , planning to put more kale in the salad than normal.

  
      When the food is finally ready, and they've all dished up everything and they're actually sitting down together to eat, an only slightly awkward silence falls over them, until that is, when Reigns and Ambrose try the stew.

      Both of them immediately brighten up, and start to dig in a little more fervently, with makes a sly almost proud smile split his lips. _Take that_ he thinks, just a little vindictively.

      "It's delicious," Reigns comments, and Seth nods, the smile becoming less sly and more genuine.

      "Thanks, my Mom would be happy to hear that," He replies softly.

      "I don't really feel the same way, but I get it," Ambrose says, ripping into a piece of garlic bread. At first, Seth kind of blinks at the slight, giving Ambrose the eye as the tawny haired man chews. Then, as if he just realizes that both Seth and Reigns misunderstood what he meant, he adds—with garlic bread still in his mouth—"Must suck sometimes when you're real close to your family."

      Seth relaxes, understanding now that Ambrose was continuing the conversation that they were having in the kitchen, even though Seth had thought it said and done by now. So he shrugs, still at a loss with Ambrose being seemingly understanding. "It's part of the job," he says like he has hundreds of times before, because it is. He's usually fine most of the time, it's just...near the holidays is harder.

      Reigns gently touches a hand to his shoulder, just a slight brush of fingers to get his attention. Seth looks up, and Reigns looks like he's fixing Seth a look right in his eyes. Even though Seth knows that's probably not the case, that the man is probably looking just beyond his shoulder or his forehead or something, Seth appreciates the sentiment."You're allowed to do your job and still miss your family," he says. "Those two things aren't mutually exclusive."

      Seth gives a half quirk of a smile. "Thanks," he mutters, looking down and away for once. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

      "If it gets us food like this, I say keep being homesick," Ambrose teases, slurping up the stew like the heathen he is.

      Seth rolls his eyes, but he's smiling, and takes a spoonful of the stew himself. His smile widens.

      Feels like home.

 

***

      Seth’s lounging in an almost daze, falling in and out of half sleep as he lays, sprawled out on top of the covers of his bed. His eyes flutter open just slightly every now and again, not really focusing long enough to register anything more than the amorphous colors of the ceiling. His room is actually warm—advantages of living on the third floor—and he’s content to just lay there, unaware as to how much time passes. It’s nice to feel a little bit lazy every now and again...to allow himself to clear his mind and exist outside of the irregular and often times sporadically intense schedule that his job demands of him.

      Unfortunately, as with most things, it must come to an end. It comes to an end, as with most things in his day to day life as of late, with a phone call.

      Sharp, bright, and unyielding the ringtone is, even though Seth is pretty certain he had set his phone to vibrate. That usually means one thing.

      Seth eyes practically shoot open, pulled out of his quasi asleep state, and  hauls himself up quickly, almost instantly regretting it when his eyes black out for a second at the change in blood pressure and equilibrium. Blinking furiously, he reaches for his phone—on his nightstand—and tries to make out the name as his eyes recalibrate.

_‘Hunter Hearst Helmsley’_

      Seth shuts his eyes, tilts his head back and groans. “What _now_?” He whines underneath his breath before swiping the ‘answer’ prompt. He sort of misses the days where Mr. Helmsley didn’t even really know he existed outside being an NXT recruit. “Hello?” He answers, perfectly polite, even though his head is still tilted back at the ceiling and his brain is still whining.

      “Seth, how are you doing?” Mr. Helmsley’s voice replies on the line.

      “Good, Sir,” Seth half lies, not even resisting the urge to roll his eyes back into his head a little at what he’s anticipating to come. “And you?” he asks, because it’s polite.

      “Can’t complain,” his Boss replies, still just as pleasant as he always seems when he’s talking to Seth, which again, feels as though it doesn’t bode well for Seth. “You’re probably wondering as to why I’m calling,” he jokes with a small chuckle, and Seth can’t even bring himself to offer more than a weak one back.

      “Could say that crossed my mind,” he admits, trying to stay with Mr. Helmsley’s good humor.

      “There was something I forgot to mention the last time we crossed paths,” Mr. Helmsley continues, and Seth braces himself for the worst. Their last interaction wasn’t exactly the best in the world. “I realized that getting a plane ticket all the way back to Iowa would prove rather difficult and if not spendy in the least, so I took care of that for you.”

      It shouldn’t surprise Seth that Mr. Helmsley knows where his family lives, and it doesn’t. WWE keeps tabs on all Agent families, to be sure that they aren’t engaging in any activities that would be against the company, and also to keep them safe from people who might do them harm in retaliation. Having his boss know his parents’ address just comes with the territory, honestly.

      Seth perks up, blinking and gripping the phone tighter. Holy hell, he'd basically forgotten all about his vacation. He completely glossed over the fact that getting a flight would be horrendous and now Mr. Helmsley just… “Not to be thankless Mr—Hunter,” Seth says, catching the slip, “But you didn’t need to do that.”

      “I know.” The other man waves him off. “Think of it as a preemptive reward for a job well done.”

      Seth blinks. Then hesitantly, “Job well done, Sir?”

      He can practically _hear_ Mr. Helmsley’s smile on the end of the line. “For the NXT Demonstration.”

      A hot bright flush blazes across Seth’s cheeks for some reason. He kind of curls in on himself. “Right...of course. Thank you Sir,” he replies tightly, squeezing his eyes shut.

      “Of course,” Mr. Helmsley replies. “I’ll have Renee forward you the details, Seth. Have a happy Holiday.”

      Seth swallows. “You too, Sir.”

      Mr. Helmsley hangs up after that.

      It takes a few long moments, but Seth finally takes the phone away from his ear, still clutching to it tightly.

      A flight? Mr. Helmsley seriously got him a _flight_ back to Iowa? He flops back down on the comforter, arms spread out as he cracks his eyes open again to stare at the ceiling. A smile breaks across his face as the realization finally hits him. He gets to go home. It may only be for three days, but for the first time in over a year he actually gets to go see his family. He can't help the excited laughter that breaks out of him, and he covers his face with his hands—even the one with his phone in it still—to hide his reaction despite the fact there's no one to hide from. He continues to laugh, half in excitement and disbelief.

      A thought suddenly strikes him. He has to call his mom, he has to tell her! Scrambling with his phone, all coordination lost in his excitement, it takes him a few tries to unlock his phone and get to Skype so he can call. It's not too late, so hopefully she answers.

      With a heart beating with anticipation, Seth watches the little icon ring and ring, trying not to verbally urge the app to go faster and for his mom to pick up the call already. If anything, he can leave a message for her to call him back. She usually gets back to him rather quickly, always taking the time to talk to him. He smiles brightly, unable to contain it just imagining how she's going to react to the news.

      Finally, _finally_ , the screen goes black for a moment, before his mom's face pops up on the screen, a little grainy since it looks like she's moving, but it settles out a little bit as the connection finishes.

      "Hi sweetheart, what a surprise!" She replies, and the smile on Seth's face just widens.

      "Hi, Mom," he says.

      "Is there a particular reason you called or did you just want to chat?" His Mom asks, and he can see from her surroundings that she's climbing up the stairs probably into her bedroom. "Oh, how did Thanksgiving go?"

      Seth is suddenly struck with a flash of memory, of blood on his hands and ambulance lights and sirens blaring in his ears, but he shakes it off quickly, hoping that his face didn't give too much away. "It was different," he admits, trying to reinforce his smile to it's previous state. "But it worked out in the end."

      She smiles, "Oh that's wonderful honey, I'm so glad it worked out!"

      Seth nods. "Me too." He watches as she slips into her room, and he hears his step dad's voice.

      "Is that him?"

      His Mom brightens. "It is!" By the sound of it, they must have been talking about him right before he called. His mom moves and Seth sees both of his parents try to squish into the frame, and his smile starts to feel genuine again.

      "Hey Dad,"

      "Heya sport," the man replies. "How's it goin'?"

      "Good, good," Seth nods. "Was just about to tell Mom that I have some news, so it's good that you're here too," he says, adjusting so he's sitting upright against the wall. He pulls his knees up to his chest and balances the phone on them while still holding it with a free hand.

      "From your smile I hope that it's good news," His mom comments idly, and Seth's smile just widens. It's actually starting to hurt with how long he's held it.

      "It is," he confirms.

      "Well out with it!" His step dad comments, and Seth chuckles.

      "Guess who got Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and the day after off from work!" Seth exclaims, unable to keep it in anymore.

      "Oh my God sweetheart that's wonderful!" His mom replies, the image of her and his step dad shaking a little bit in her excitement, making him laugh brightly.

      His step dad looks on in almost disbelief. "How'd you manage that, sport?"

      "I'm gonna put in some extra work right before, but my Boss approved and arranged everything so I should be completely work free for those three days," Seth explains. He should probably feel bad about how easily the half truths come out of his mouth, but at this point, he's so used to lying about his job that it's almost second nature to do so. If the lies and half truths benefit his family's well being and happiness, is it really so bad for him to lie?

      “Will you be able to get a flight this late into the month?” His step dad asks, and his mother’s smile gets a little deflated.

      “Honey, that’s going to cost too much money, you don’t have to come,” she says quickly, even though Seth knows that it’s probably kind of kills her to say so. He’s still smiling, because he’s still going to make their day.

      “It’s already arranged,” he assured. “My Boss took care of everything.”

      “That’s a really understanding Boss,” His step dad replies, if not a bit suspicious.

      Another half truth comes easily coming out of Seth’s mouth. “He’s been really impressed with my work so far, so he assured me that this was the least that he could do.”

      Both of his parents’ smiles return, and Seth can’t help but bask in the warmth that that the sight gives him. He misses them so damn much, and the thought of seeing them in just two weeks or so is almost too good to be true. “That’s so incredible to hear honey!” His mother replies, “I’m so excited. I was going to just mail you your presents, but getting them in person will be so much better!”

      Seth has a moment to panic in his head about presents, how could he have just spaced getting _presents_ ? But he recovers quickly, hopefully he’ll have enough time to get at least something for the both of them. He knows if he says anything that his parents will just say that his mere presence is a present in and of itself, but it would still feel shitty to not at least try to find _something_. “It’s going to be great,” he agrees with a smile and a nod.

      His step dad gives him a sign off then, wandering out of frame so it’s left with just his mom and him. “Do you know if your coworkers are doing anything?” She asks, settling onto her own bed.

      Seth shrugs. He honestly doesn’t know whether or not they’ve asked for any time off for Christmas. With Ambrose’s track record, it doesn’t seem very likely, but Reigns is a complete mystery to him. From what he’s gleaned from the little bits of information here and there, Reigns has a big family, so it seems odd that he wouldn’t at least _try_ , right? “I’m not sure,” he admits, if not a little sheepishly. His mom seems a little too invested with his coworkers. Then again, that’s his mom, always curious about what’s going on in his life now that she’s not as much as an integral part of it anymore.

      That thought sits in his gut a little.

      “I’d suggest they come with you were it not for the fact that you probably only have one plane ticket,” she jokes. Seth knows it’s only a half joke though. His mom’s always been this way, so easily and ready to accommodate anyone.

      “Maybe that and the Iowa in late December thing,” Seth jokes. “Reigns has already been complaining about the snow and the cold.”

      His mom stares a little blankly at him. “...Reigns?” She asks carefully.

      Seth clears his throat. Right. “Um, sorry, Roman,” he clarifies, “One of my roommate coworkers.”

      “I remember,” she replies softly. “You don’t call each other by your first names?”

      A flush stings the top of Seth’s cheeks. Damn it. “Um...sometimes...it just um….”

      He can’t really come up with an excuse, and he knows his mom can tell because she’s doing the ‘Mom Face’. “Honey, I know they’re your coworkers, but they’re still your roommates too, you should really call them by their given names if they tell you that you can.”

      “I know,” he nods. “It’s just strange. I mean we trained together but this is….”

      “Different,” she finishes for him. “I know sweetheart, but don’t you think that’ll maybe help bridge some gaps?”

      Seth doesn’t want to admit it, but that actually does kind of make some sense. He nods, even though he doesn’t know whether or not he’d even be able to pull that off. It’s just like...their last names are their names to him...it’s not something he really consciously does to annoy them or alienate them in any way. “Maybe,” he replies, for lack of anything else to say.

      “Honey,” She says, and he drags his eyes back to her, and she’s smiling. “I’m sure if you try, your coworkers will see what a nice boy you are.”

      Seth flushes more and rolls his eyes to try to hide the embarrassment. “Mom,” he whines a little under his breath, wanting to bury his face in his knees.

      “Nice man,” she corrects with a small laugh.

      She stops teasing him after that, and continues on the conversation. She cleverly stays away from topics revolving around his work, even though he knows she’s always burning with curiosity about his ‘Security Work’. They talk about the weather in each respective place, and she talks about their home sports teams and catches Seth up since he hasn’t really had time to sit down and follow anything. It nice, and he can’t wait to be able to sit with her in person and do this, with no doubt enough snacks and sweets piles around that would make the NXT nutritionist have a heart attack just from looking. He heaves a sigh.

      He can’t wait to go home.

 

***

      Dean stares at the phone, more than a little flabbergasted if he were to be honest with himself. He doesn’t quite believe in the name on the screen, feels like it’s a hallucination or a trick, but the name doesn’t change, so he swipes his thumb carefully across the green ‘answer’ prompt. He pulls the phone to his ear and says, “Hello?” in a voice that is probably more suspicious sounding than is probably needed, but hey, it’s not too far off from how he actually feels.

      “Dean?” The bright voice on the other end asks hesitantly, and immediately Dean recognizes the voice, but it doesn’t belong to who he thought it was.

      “You’re not Triple H,” comes blurting out of his mouth, and he visibly winces at himself and his fucking mouth.

      Thankfully, Renee seems to think he’s funny for some reason, and she laughs. “No, I’m not,” she assures.

      Dean pulls the phone back to look at the contact name, and is still says, ‘Hunter Hearst Helmsley’ on it, and his mouth quirks downwards. “You steal his phone?”

      “Office phone,” she replies, following his train of thought easily. “He wanted me to call you.”

      Dean’s mouth falls into a full on frown, as he glances up to the ceiling, trying to remember whether or not he’s done something worthy of reprimand lately. “He’s got _you_ calling?” He asks, his brows furrowing.

      “It’s nothing bad, I promise,” and Dean actually finds himself relaxing at that, slipping down so his knees are hooked over the armrest of the loveseat.

      “So….what’s up?” He asks, not really knowing where to go from there.

      Renee thankfully doesn’t try to dally with small talk, perhaps sensing Dean’s awkwardness. “Mr. Helmsley wanted me to inform you that you as well as the rest of the Shield have earned yourself three days of vacation from The Twenty Fourth to the Twenty Sixth,” she says, and Dean can’t help but snort at how intentionally rehearsed it sounds. “It is assured that you will not be called in for any missions, meetings, deliberations or anything of the sort unless in the case of an absolute emergency or if deemed necessary by Mr. Helmsley, Ms. McMahon, or Mr. McMahon himself. You are also not expected to be on call for any such things again, unless there is an emergency.”

      His eyebrows shoot up then. “We get a _real_ _vacation_?” He asks, “Trips himself said so?”

      He can imagine Renee nodding easily as she answers. “That’s what he told me,” she says, her voice completely losing that overly rehearsed edge.

      “The others know yet?” He asks, shifting so he can cradle his phone against his shoulder and lay his hands over his stomach.

      “Mmhm, I called you last,” Renee confirms.

      After a few seconds of silence, and not really knowing what he should say next, Dean clears his throat. “Thank you for telling me,” he says. “I should let you go.”

      “It’s alright,” Renee says warmly, “I’m not doing anything too important, and I wanted to ask you something anyways.”

      “Yeah?” Dean asks as he sits up straight then, suddenly curious.

      “I know it’s kind of short notice, and I don’t know if you would have anything planned anyways,” Renee starts, like she’s already setting herself up for a rejection even though she hasn’t even truly asked him yet. “But I have the Twenty Sixth off too, and I was wondering if you were free….If you would like to pay me back for that coffee?”

      Dean blinks, honestly not expecting that in the least. A hot wash of something comes over him, and Rollins’ stupid cackle echoes brightly in his brain.

_“It’s a date~”_

      He almost verbally shouts. “It’s not a date!” again, but he bites his tongue and keeps it back just in time so he doesn’t absolutely make a total ass out of himself.

      He must have been silent for too long, because Renee speaks again. “I mean, if you’re not busy, I thought this would be a nice opportunity...if you’re still interested—” and she keeps going on, and Dean really can’t have her thinking she’s done anything wrong when it’s actually just him being a fucking weirdo as usual.

      “No, sorry. I mean yes….yeah...I’m not….if you wanted…” he says, and feels stupid for it.  “Yes, if you wanted,” he adds more clearly, even though he still feels fucking stupid.

 _Not a date,_ he reminds himself.

 _“Not unless I want it to be,”_ Roman’s terribly unhelpful voice reminds him through some annoying past mental telepathy.

      Renee probably has that bright polite smile on her face like she did the first time they ever met if her tone is anything to guess by. “Excellent! Is it alright if I text you the details a little bit closer to the date?”

      Dean swallows roughly, trying very hard not to focus on the word ‘date’ even though he knows she meant it as in the literal day, but Rollins’ dumbass cackle still permeates his brain and he’s gonna punch the dick in his stupid mouth in retrospect for this damn embarrassment.

      He grunts more of instinct than anything because he knows he hasn’t answered promptly again. “Yeah, should be fine,” he responds, even though he knows he’s not real good with texting anyway.

      “Great. I’ll just…” she trails off a little, and she’s probably already sending off a text if that’s anything to go by.

      As if right on cue, Dean feels two quick vibrations against his ear. He nods—like an idiot—but then actually verbally responds. “Ok.”

      “See you then?” She asks, and Dean can’t help but think it’s strange that she seems totally unperturbed by his complete lack of real social skills. He’s better at interrogation for a fucking reason.

      “Yeah,” he just responds, because he’s really got nothing to say.

      “Alright, it was good talking to you Dean,” Renee replies, “Have a good vacation!”

      Dean can’t help but frown at what seems like a fib. He knows that conversation had about as much depth as a half drunk glass of water, and that his people skills leave so fucking much to be desired. Thankfully he seems to have at least some sense of conversation skills when he automatically replies. “You too.” Hopefully he sounds like he means it and it doesn’t just sound like he said it because it’s what you’re supposed to say.

      He doesn’t get a clue as to whether or not he did it right, because Renee hangs up after he says that, the little trill in his ear telling him so. To be fair, that’s probably where any natural phone call would end, but it’s still strange.

      Dean sighs, pulling the phone away from his ear. Looking at the screen, there’s a little red ‘1’ above what looks like an envelope at the bottom of the screen, and he clicks on it with his thumb.

      He’s only slightly surprised that it says, ‘Renee Young’ as the contact name, and that’s only because he hadn’t known her last name, and he didn’t think that WWE would program a secretary’s number into an Agent’s phone. Then again, maybe everyone who worked for WWE got their own special phone like the Agents did, and they had a database of all the numbers. Wouldn’t put it past them. Dean clicks on the message and it pops up.

 

_From: Renee Young_

_‘It’s me, Renee!’_

 

      Dean’s not real good at texting, told Rollins so, but he would kind of feel bad not letting her know he at least got it. It takes him a good minute or so to figure out the keyboard, but once he gets it, he types out a response.

 

_To: Renee Young_

_‘i know’_

 

As soon as he sends it he wishes he didn’t. What a stupidly pretentious thing to say when all she was—

 

_From: Renee Young_

_‘Oh good, I’m glad they had my number programmed in! Makes things a lot easier!’_

 

Dean swallows.

 

_To: Renee Young_

_‘i guess’_

 

He swallows again. Idiot.

 

_From: Renee Young_

_‘Have to get back to work. Good talking to you! :)’_

 

Dean snorts a little at the sideways smiley face. He doesn’t answer because the conversation it’s probably well and truly over now and he doesn’t want to make even more of an idiot of himself by trying to prolong it.

His attention is brought away from his phone when a voice asks, “Something funny?”

Dean glances up to see Roman there, pulling on his coat like he’s leaving. He’s probably not asking for any other reason other than fleeting curiosity, but Dean just shakes his head. “Naw, not really,” he replies. It’s a poor excuse, and were it anyone other than Roman they would probably pry further, but the Big Man just continues shrugging on his coat. He likes that about Roman; the guy knows when to just let sleeping dogs fucking lie. If it were Rollins, he probably would have been pestered to no end because the guy is insufferable sometimes. “Where ya going?” He asks.

“Gym,” the Samoan replies, gesturing to a duffel bag next to his feet on the floor.

Dean nods probably a little harder than he needs to, bobbing along with it to a small unknown beat. “Cool.”

Roman absently feels for his keys in his pockets as he glances over at Dean. He offers a raised eyebrow. “You wanna come?”

“At Headquarters?”

“No.”

Dean swings his legs around and practically flings himself off the couch, shifting his shoulders after he does. “Sure.”

“Go get a change of clothes,” Roman prompts, jerking his head towards their rooms.

“What’s wrong with what I have on now?” Dean asks, looking down at himself. When he looks back up, Roman has a flat stare focused on him.

“You’re wearing jeans.”

“Comfortable jeans.”

“And boots.”

“ _Comfortable_ boots,” Dean reiterates.

“Go,” Roman insists, jerking his head again.

Dean gives a heave of a put upon sigh. “Yes Motherrrr~” He says, traipsing down the hall towards his room.

 

He crams some mesh shorts, sneakers, and an only slightly funky smelling t-shirt into a duffel bag, and hoists it over his shoulder once he’s back out in the living room. “You get a ride?”

“Gym's just down the street,” Roman replies, sounding slightly distracted as he stares at his phone. Probably looking at directions.

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up for a second. “ _You_ suggesting we walk in _this_ weather?” He asks, pointing out to the not _as_ cold and snowy outdoors via a thumb over his shoulder.

Roman stuff his phone into his jacket pocket and heads for the door. “Good exercise.”

Dean scoffs goodnaturedly and follows after him. “Only you would think about exercising before exercising.”

 

The gym is thankfully a sort of out of the way hole-in-the-wall deals, no big flashy neon posters declaring that you can lose 15 pounds with a membership or your money back guaranteed. There probably won’t be too many people in there regardless due to weather, but it thankfully doesn’t look like a big enough facility to cater to a lot of different activities in the first place.

The quickly change in the locker room, stuffing their winter gear—more Roman’s than Dean’s—into their respective lockers, and head out onto the gym floor.

 

As Dean spots for Roman while the Big Man bench presses some huge amount of weight, he says, “So about the thing,” and doesn’t clarify.

“What thing?” Roman asks, but doesn’t stop with his lifting.

Dean takes a brief look at their rather secluded part of the gym. “You know, the mission thing.”

Roman’s eyes snap to his for a split second. “You wanna talk about that _now_?” He asks, and Dean finds it a little funny at how incredulous and slightly labored Roman’s voice sounds.

He shrugs. “Didn’t wanna get interrupted by the half dyed wonder.”

“That’s a new one,” Roman grunts, and the taller Agent rolls his eyes.

“Not the point, so stop trying to distract me.”

“Damn, you caught me,” Roman says, and the strain in the deadpan makes Dean snicker.

“Like I said, wanna talk about it while Rollins ain’t here.”

“Why?”

“Will you just humor me for a sec?”

“Kinda hard with my hands full,” Roman grunts roughly before exhaling.

Dean just rolls his eyes goodnaturedly and continues on anyway. “ _Anyways_ ,” he says, still maintaining and eye on Roman to be sure the Big Guy doesn’t overdo anything. “Just wanna have a talk about it without Rollins trying to interrupt me every three seconds.”

Roman grunts, and Dean takes it as incentive to continue.

“I mean, if we _are_ gonna play this like it’s a demonstration, we _really_ gotta plan it out. I mean, we should do some research or something, figure out the strengths and weaknesses of the recruits, you know?”

The barbell clicks back onto the rack and Roman breathes, sitting up straight. Dean wordlessly hands him the towel that was hanging off the end of the bench and watches Roman clean the sweat off his face, waiting for the answer the Big Man undoubtedly has.

“ _You’re_ advocating for research?” is not quite what he thought Roman was gonna say.

“Hey!” Dean protests, wishing he had another towel so he could toss it at his teammate’s head.

Roman just chuckles softly, dabbing the towel against his hairline. “I’m just pushing your buttons.” He shifts then, stretching out his arms. “Do you think that would be going to easy on the fresh blood?”

“Do you?” Dean asks, incredulous.

“No, just want to make sure we’re still on the same page here,” Roman clarifies, offering a placating hand.

The younger man nods then, reaching up to idly tap his middle finger against his collarbone. Will they be able to get any information on the recruits? Is that something they’d even be allowed to be privy to? Considering they’re gonna be performing a pretty in depth ‘as close to real as it gets’ demonstration, they should be able to at least get access to who and what they’re dealing with, right? Dean scoffs lightly underneath his breath. Considering all the shenanigans they had to go through to even get to the point that they are, he ain’t holdin’ his breath none.

Well….since Punk was looking through the NXT records in the first place, maybe they could ask him? Dean’s lips pull tight. God it feels like they’ve already asked too damn much of Punk, and the guy probably already got in trouble because of Rollins’ damn mouth, so how much could they really even ask of him?

“Hey,” Roman says, and Dean jerks his head up, his finger freezing against his collar bone.

“Yeah?”

Roman jerks his head towards the treadmills. “Run?”

Dean uses his thumb to crack the knuckles on each hand. He looks at the treadmills, then nods and stands. “Yeah.”

While Roman huffs quietly at a fairly brisk pace, he’s no match for Dean, who’s up two levels of speed from him and breathing about the same pace. “So I’m thinking systematic shutdown, take out the strongest players first…” Dean says as he runs, his voice bouncing a little along with his pace. Thankfully he doesn’t have to raise his voice too much since they’re so close together. Like Roman said, wouldn’t be wise to raise too much suspicion, even though the only others here are hardcore gym rats who couldn’t give two shits about the guys running on the treadmills in the corner. “Leave the others up shit creek without a paddle.”

Roman huffs harder in between his words as he speaks. “You’re still...trying to...talk about this?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies easily, then smirks. “What, can’t talk and run at the same time?”

Roman shoots him a glare from out of the corner of his eyes, and Dean just snorts. “Usually focused on the running part,” Roman grunts. “But continue if you must.”

Dean knows Roman is being rhetorical, and would probably rather Dean shut up, but the tawny haired man just smiles. “Then continue I shall.”

His smile widens at Roman’s groan.

 

Dean throws some ideas out here and there as they run, being careful again not to draw too much attention or be too specific with what he’s talking about. Roman doesn’t really comment on any of them other than a few acknowledging words, but honestly, it’s just nice to be able to think out loud with someone who understands what he’s talking about and won’t try to shitcan his brainstorming the second it comes out of his mouth.

Another thought crosses his mind. “Are we gonna be ‘demonstrating’ on the girls too?”

That actually causes Roman to stumble for a second, and he glances over at Dean, his mouth in a thin line in a way that makes Dean think it’s something the Big Man hadn’t thought about either until Dean had brought it up. “I don’t know,” He answers honestly, and that makes Dean swallow down another twinge at the back of his throat.

It’s not like he doesn’t think that the women would be able to handle them—especially considering this whole thing in non-lethal—just the idea of beating up a handful of ladies doesn’t sit well with him.

Doesn’t seem to sit well with Roman either, since he’s got this little tick to his mouth and eyebrows that gives him away. Dean adjusts the treadmill so he slows down, just a little. “Well…” he starts carefully. “Like I said, research would probably be the best way to go about it then, really figure out what we’re up against and go from there.”

“We’d need to get it quickly,” Roman says, adjusting his treadmill too. “We don’t have a lot of time to get planning done.”

Dean groans, remembering that this is all going to go down in less than a week. “We better get on it then.”

“Think Seth would be able to get information?” Roman tosses a glance Dean’s way.

They really _do_ need to see what info they can scrounge up before the big day comes. And again, loathe as Dean is to admit it, getting information is what Rollins is good at. “That’s what he does,” is all he says before returning his attention back to his run.

 

They workout at different machines for the better part of two hours, and after they’re finished, showered and changed back into their street clothes, Dean can admit that he feels better than he did before they left. Sure, he’s sore and a little exhausted—both mentally and physically—but he’s got some ideas as to what they should do when the times comes to attack NXT, and at least Roman seems pretty on board with him as well. He’s not wound as tightly either, expressing some of his frustrations through working out really helping him to not be as tense as he’s been. He wonders idly if Roman could tell, and orchestrated the whole thing with the intention of getting Dean to work out some of the stress under the guise of casually inviting Dean to go to the gym with him. Dean honestly wouldn’t put it past the Big Man, with his Mama Bear tendencies and all.

He’s tying his boots up outside of the locker room when Roman finally steps out, typing something out on his phone. “Ok…..thanks,” the Samoan says under his breath, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Alright, apparently he was texting someone.

“Something important?” Dean asks carefully, casually.

“Messaged Seth,” Roman replies, sliding his phone into his jacket pocket. “Asked him if he could get a head start on getting any information about the NXT recruits that we can before the big day comes.”

Dean finishes off his shoes. “And he said he would?” He asks. Would almost be too easy, coming from the half blonde. Then again, he seemed to do things for Roman without much fuss of bickering, so maybe it was just that. Damn, how nice would that be?

“Agreed that it was a good idea.” Roman’s little half smile throws him off. “Told him it was yours.”

Dean blinks as he stands. “Oh,”

Roman’s little smile just gets bigger. “He said that too.”

A begrudging quirk shifts the side of Dean’s mouth. “Huh.”

“Come on,” Roman offers a hand to help, even though Dean doesn’t really need it. The slighter man takes it anyway and gets hauled up straight. “Let’s get going.”

After straightening out some invisible wrinkles in his jacket, Dean glances up at Roman from under his brows. “In a hurry for something?”

“You’re right,” Roman says. Of course Dean would usually agree, but he’s a bit spotty at to what specifically Roman is talking about. It must show on his face, since Roman adds. “If we’re going to do right by the NXT recruits, and right by the company, then we need a plan, and a damn good one at that.”

Dean smirks and huffs a laugh out of his nose. “Let’s go then,” he replies, jerking his head towards the exit where a light flurry of snow has just begun to fall. “We don’t have anymore time to waste.”

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Guess who's back! I hope you all had a lovely July, and while mine was super busy, I'm really glad to be back with more! I was actually kind of surprised at how much I missed updating this story, so I'm not gonna beat around the bush any longer. Here's the next chapter!

***

      “See this guy,” Rollins says, tapping at the dossier spread out in front of him. “He’s one I’m worried about.”

      Dean takes a bite of his sandwich, leaning over Rollins’ shoulder as he chews, and the guy makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat, leaning so he doesn’t have Dean chewing in his ear so much. Dean huffs a laugh out of his nose, ignoring the look Rollins is giving him in favor of looking over the file.

      The guy is big, Dean can see that easily. Broader and bulkier than Roman even, but maybe not taller. He would be someone to worry about. “What’re his stats like?” Dean asks, still half chewing, reaching over Rollins’ shoulder now to grab at the

      Rollins scoffs at him, but Dean ignores it again in favor of scanning his eyes over the page. Hmmmm, good, high marks all around. Yeah, definitely someone to be looking out for when the time comes. Dean’s eyes scan over something else, and he huffs another laugh. “Big ‘E’ Langston? What kind of name is that?”

      “It’s a nickname, dumbass,” Rollins replies grabbing the file back so he can point to the line below. “His name is William.”

      Dean leans forward with a squint, and he hears the half hidden grumble from Rollins anyway. “Huh,” is all he says.

      “Names aside,” Roman says, rounding the kitchen table with his nose deep in another file, “He sounds like someone who should remain a top priority.”

      “Where the hell did you get access to these in the first place?” Dean asks, still grazing through Big E’s file.

      Rollins turns the page in another file, looking rather nonchalant. “Amazing what you can get access to when you go to the physical files themselves.”

      Dean’s smile widens. No way...no way hell Rollins actually—but the rather smug and proud look Rollins sends his way confirms it for him. Without really thinking about it, Dean laughs and reaches to slap Rollins on the back. “Who’d’ve thought you had the guts!” He cheers, and Rollins just smirks and rolls his eyes.

      “Good at my job,” is all he offers, but the small satisfied smirk that still graces his lips tells Dean everything.

      “Should we separate them?” Dean asks suddenly, fishing another file out of the rather large pile next to Rollins. “Top Priority, Potential Problem, Whatever, Leave for Last?”

      “Very official naming,” Rollins mutters underneath his breath, shifting Big E’s file off to the side regardless.

      “Absolutely,” Dean replies, placing the last half of his sandwich in his mouth so he can use both hands to flip through the file.

      Roman finishes his own file and steps towards the table, setting it carefully down on top of Big E’s file. “Whozzat?” Dean asks, still with a mouth full of sandwich.

      “Charlotte Flair,” Roman replies softly, grabbing another file out of the pile.

      Dean’s eyes go from the Samoan to the file. “Flair?” He asks. If that’s who he thinks it is….

      “Will you finish eating away from the files please?” Rollins snaps, practically yanking the file out of Dean’s hands. “You’re getting crumbs on everything and I still have to return these when we’re done.”

      Dean rolls his eyes but chomps down, not grabbing anymore files as he chews. “Is Flair who I think she is?” He asks Roman.

      Roman glances up from underneath his brows at Dean. “That’s why she’s in the ‘Top Priority’ pile.”

      Dean whistles, or tries to with the amount of food that’s still in his mouth, and a little spits out and lands directly next to Rollins’ hand. The half blonde shoots him a deadly glare and points. “Go.” He says tightly, through his teeth, and it brooks no argument.

      Dean actually scoots, closer to Roman now, and looks over the big man’s shoulder. “Whozzat?” he says again.

      “Read,” is all Roman says in return, not moving or offering anything more than that.

      “Ass,” Dean replies, but it sounds more like, ‘ash’ than anything.

      “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Roman nonchalantly admonishes, not even giving him a glance as the big guy continues to flip through the file.

      “Bitch,” Dean says after he swallows the last of his sandwich, just to poke the bear.

      Roman doesn’t reply, which kind of bums Dean out a bit, until an elbow jab to his ribs pushes him away, and he laughs when Roman gives him a look that says just enough out of the corner of his eyes. “Go get your own.”

      “Roger Dodger,” Dean salutes flippantly, and pointedly grabs one away from Rollins’ snatching distance.

 

***

      Their night continues on in much the same fashion. Late into the night and into the early morning they sit, reading, discussing, and organizing each NXT recruit, file by file. By the time they’re done, they have several respectable piles in front of them. Seth had decided to forgo Ambrose’s criteria for organizing and naming them, and had just narrowed it down to, “Top Priority, Mid Priority, and Low Priority,” to which Ambrose had replied, “Boring.”

      There’s more files in the “Top Priority” pile than the half blonde would like, but he’s not about to risk anything going wrong in this mission by underestimating any of these recruits.

      Reigns seems to be on the same wavelength as him, since he says, with slight apprehension—probably due to the lateness of the hour—“Should we….organize that pile now?  Topmost Top Priority?”

      Ambrose, who has now relocated to the loveseat and is draped rather dramatically over it, groans. “You think that’s gonna do us any good?”

      Seth sighs and puts his head in his hands, not wanting to look at the time since it’ll only make him that much more aware of how tired he is. They really should, but will it really do them any good? There’s only three of them against the entirety of the NXT recruits, and while they’re good, the more that he looks through his files, the more manpower he wishes they had. Hell….even if they had more time it would be better than what they have….but they don’t.

      “I don’t know,” Seth admits softly, turning his head out of his hands only just enough to peek an eye at Ambrose, who is still staring up at the ceiling.

      Reigns glances at the piles. “I think we need to move onto strategy.”

      “What do you think we should do about the girls?” Ambrose spouts suddenly, turning his head to the side to look at both Reigns and Seth.

      Seth makes a face. He doesn’t underestimate them—that would be stupid—but it’s not like he’s going to take joy in trying to take them down. He shouldn’t take it easy on them—since it would negate the entire point of the demonstration in the first place—but there’s something in his Iowa raised disposition that makes the idea of beating up women of any sort feel wrong. "In any normal situation I'd probably say no mercy," he admits. "Because they sure as hell aren't going to give us any the moment we start taking people down."

      "Just gotta treat 'em like any other target, any other recruit," Reigns replies, leaning against the back of the couch with his arms crossed over his chest. "They need to be tested, because there sure as hell ain't get any mercy when they're out in the field, whether they're facing men or not. If anything, a good few of them would probably thank us for not treating them like they're weaker just because they're women."

      "I'm sure that Flair girl would beat my ass halfway to Sunday without batting an eyelash," Ambrose comments, if not a bit ruefully.

      "Take her out to dinner first, Tiger," Reigns replies, his voice dripping with enough deadpan sarcasm that it makes Seth snort a little laugh out of his nose in surprise.

      "Shut the fuck up." Ambrose right out laughs. He then flips Reigns off, probably for good measure. " _Now_ who's the nasty one?"

      Reigns actually chuckles enough that a little bit of his teeth show with the quirk of his mouth, and Seth's smile falters a bit at the sight. The reference and/or the joke is lost on him, and a little twinge in the back of his mind barks at him over the alienation, however small it may be. Seth waves it off and pushes it back because how ridiculous. Obviously Reigns and Ambrose have spent time together without him, just as he's spent time with one or the other as well. None of them are necessarily going to know _everything_ , so it's nothing to feel left out about.

      He's too damn tired.

      But there's still so much work to be done.

      A few long moments of silence pass between the three of them, until Reigns says "Should turn in, we've done enough for tonight. Sleep on it."

      "Fucking finally," Ambrose grumbles, swinging his body and twisting to sit up correctly in the loveseat. "Was waiting."

      "Then why didn't you say something?" Reigns asks, fully looking over his shoulder at the other Agent.

      Ambrose shrugs after a moment. "I was the one who suggested we really plan it out in the first place. Didn't wanna be the one to tap out first."

      "Going to bed isn't tapping out," Reigns replies.

      Ambrose's brows furrow, just slightly. "I don't tap out."

      Overlooking the fact that the conversation is obviously getting nowhere, the voices of the other Agents is starting to give Seth a major headache right behind the eyes. Probably that along with the fact that he's been reading and re-reading through files for more than five hours. While going to sleep is not necessarily a bad thing, he still has the blueprints for the building he needs to go through—because of course they're not going to be holding the demonstration on sight since that would only make their job _way_ easier—and start drawing up plans eo correspond with those blueprints. And if they want to be able to do a dry run in the building itself they're going to have to have at least a few plans ready so that they—

      "Seth," Reigns says, loud enough to snap Seth out of his mental 'To-Do-List' making. The Samoan must have said it several times, because he's looking at Seth expectantly. Ambrose is nowhere to be seen now, probably already back in his room, and Seth offers a weak smile. "You going to bed?"

      Seth glances at the several piles of files and the other documents spread out before him. "I have a few things I still want to look over before I turn in," he says, pointedly not looking at his teammate.

      Reigns is quiet for a long moment, and Seth can feel the stare that's being aimed at him. He does his best to stick to his guns, not looking in Reigns' direction and giving in to the stare. He reaches for where he's places the several different size copies of the building blueprints and starts to spread them out a little more, grabbing a notepad and a pen while the stare still forges on.

      Finally, Reigns seems to figure out Seth isn't going to submit to the look this time, and he sighs quietly. "Don't stay up too late," is all he says, and he steps away.

      “I won’t,” Seth assures quietly, even though he’s not all that sure himself whether or not he’s lying.

      Reigns however, doesn't leave the room right away. Seth tries to ignore the presence of the other man, forcefully attempting to absorb himself into the blueprints in front of him. It works for a few moments, until Reigns wanders too close into Seth's peripheral vision, and he'll lose his focus all over again. Finally, Seth simply decides to wait it out. He glances up because honestly, what could Reigns be doing?

      The big man crosses the living room from the entryway and Seth's eyes narrow a bit as he watches. Reigns approaches the sliding glass door and goes for the handle, making sure that it's locked. He then tests the strength of the lock by pulling with what's not an inconsiderable amount of strength. Seemingly satisfied, he steps behind Seth, whose eyes snap back to his blueprints as Reigns approaches. Staring harshly out of his peripherals, Seth watches Reigns carefully run his fingers along the edges of the large window. For a moment, Seth is confused, because that window doesn't even open, but then, as Reigns passes behind him and through the kitchen, it hits Seth that Reigns is making sure that the apartment is secure before going to sleep.

      In the kitchen, Reigns pauses at the oven for a few seconds. _Making sure the burners are all the way off_ Seth thinks, more than a little bit in awe.

      Does Reigns do this every night? Check every possible entry and exit point, making sure everything is as secure as possible before turning in? Does it get more elaborate sometimes, or is he just doing this for Seth's benefit since he's going to be alone in the kitchen while the others are asleep? The implication stings a little bit, because he's more than capable of handling himself. The movements and the order seem practiced, nothing more than a routine to the Samoan, and Seth really feels almost a little bad, because he hadn't even thought about the possibility of someone trying to get into the apartment.

      Sure they've done a few missions, and are about to pull off another one in a handful of days, but they've hardly made any enemies, really. No one in the outside world really knows who they are or what they do beyond face value.

      But it's not always going to stay that way, is it?

      Is Reigns already taking precautions for the eventual possibility that they may be attacked in their own home?

      He thinks WWE would and/or should have security measures in place with this apartment in the case of something going wrong and the wrong someone finding out who and where they are. It's not like Seth hasn't noticed the heavy duty doors and locks, the lack of too many windows, the fact that they're on the third floor in a block that's closer to the center of the complex. When looking at it through the eyes of an Agent, it all screams precautionary measures, and what Reigns is doing now, only reinforces once again what they are, and what they've become, and what that means for them.

      "Goodnight," Reigns eventually says, from the mouth of the hallway, and Seth flinces just a little bit as he's pulled out of his head. He glances up from his blank page of notes to Reigns, and nods.

      "Night," he replies.

      Reigns waits, looking as though he wants to say more, but to Seth's surprise, turns away and heads down the hall and making barely a sound, slips into his bedroom.

      Seth watches the hall for a long moment, waiting for any more movements, but there are none, and the half blonde sighs, relaxing slightly into his chair. He looks back down at the blueprints, at his blank notepad and sighs. Trying his best to ignore and blink through his tired eyes, Seth focuses on the schematics, and sets his brain to work.

 

***

      For the first time in a long time, Dean wakes from sleep feeling actually fairly well rested. He wakes up about the crack of dawn because of course he does, but even though he was probably only asleep for four hours or so, he doesn't feel like he's a walking corpse.

      Coffee would still be nice right about now though.

      Plus, he can get a head start on looking at some of those building blueprints, maybe concoct some ideas while he makes himself something to eat. Yeah, that sounds good.

      So with a stretch and a yawn, Dean swings himself out of bed, plodding out of his room while he scratches at his stomach underneath his shirt. Stepping out of the hallway, he sees that there's a light on in the kitchen, which makes him stop short. Now normally this isn't something that's out of the ordinary considering all three of them wake up at the ass crack of dawn pretty much every day, but the fact that it's the only light on, and that Roman isn't in said kitchen making coffee sends off alarm bells. He doesn't have much in the ways of protecting himself right in the living room other than the element of surprise, but as he strains his ears to hear anything out of the ordinary, he doesn't catch on anything that sounds like movement. Confused and perhaps still a little out of it from sleep, Dean carefully steps to the the kitchen, and what he sees makes his tense shoulders drop with a mixture of relief and disbelief.

      Rollins is asleep at the kitchen table.

      Dean watches him for a moment, his mostly dark hair fanned out over his head as his face is pressed directly into some of the papers spread out on the table. He's still in the clothes he was in the night before, so that tells Dean that the man never actually went to bed last night after both he and Roman turned in. A little annoyed sneer makes itself present on Dean's face. He steps over to Rollins, making his steps rather obvious all things considered, and it's a testament to how tired and completely asleep the half blonde is when he doesn't even move. Now that he's closer, Dean can hear just the faintest of whistling sounds coming out of Rollins' mouth on every exhale, and Dean rolls his eyes, his mouth not pinched quite so much in a sneer. Who knows how long Rollins has actually been asleep, but from the looks of it, if he sleeps any longer at the table, he's going to be sorry over how sore he is.

      With a sigh, Dean carefully steps to Rollins, and very carefully places a hand on the man's shoulder, ready just in case Rollins' instincts react and he ends up flinging himself up and aiming at the first thing in front of him, which would be Dean.

      Again, it's telling to how out Rollins is when he doesn't react. Dean gently shakes him. All that gets him is a little murmur. Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and sighs, resisting the urge to be an ass and just kick Rollins right out of his chair. He shakes the man again, a little harder this time. "Rollins," he says, "Wake up, you idiot."

      That does it. However, instead of the immediate wakefulness of an Agent like Dean expects Rollins to be, he sees a slow intake of breath that shakes the pattern established by sleep, and fluttering lashes under a curtain of dark brown and blonde hair.

      It takes a second, but Rollins finally seems to have joined the land of the living, but with how slowly he moves and how he blinks at Dean while moving his hair out of his eyes, Dean figures the man hadn't been asleep for very long at all. Dean narrows his eyes at him.  
  
      Idiot.  
  
      "What time is it?" Rollins asks, his voice rough and cracking from sleep, he pushes his hair all the way out of his face now, and Dean's frown only deepens at the obvious dark circles under the other Agent's eyes.

      "Doesn't matter," Dean replies.

      Rollins either doesn't believe him, or is still just on the side of, 'still waking up, can't quite focus or understand', because he gives Dean a look, blinking harshly him. "What?"

      Dean shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. You're going back to bed."

      Rollins' brows furrow. "Why? We don't have time for—"

      "Because you fell asleep at the kitchen table," Roman's voice appears behind Dean, and Dean would almost snicker at the, 'disappointed parent' tone were it not for the fact that he's kinda pissed at Rollins too.

      Sure, he's not the best to talk to about not sleeping, and there have been times during training where he's had to stay up more than 24 hours, but this is different. Each of them need to be in as top physical condition that they can, and Rollins, despite how good of a plan maker he actually is, is definitely not going to be useful to them running on what seems like less than an hour of sleep.

      Dean stands up straight now, glancing over his shoulder at Roman. "Which is why he's going back to sleep," Dean reiterates, pointedly not paying attention to the look Rollins' has on his face that clearly states he doesn't like the fact that they've started talking about him like he's not sitting right there. But it doesn't fucking matter because he's going back to bed.

      "I'm fine," Rollins argues, and both Dean and Roman give him skeptical raises of their brows.

      "Mmmhm," Roman replies, his arms crossing over his chest. "Just like you said that you weren't going to stay up too late."

      Dean does smirk at that, because that is _so_ a disappointed parent tone, and he crosses his arms too, giving Rollins a pointed, 'You're in trouble now', look.

      It takes another few seconds, like he's trying to come up with a rebuttal, but Rollins eventually shuts his mouth and he frowns, avoiding their eyes and looking down at the scattered papers in front of him.

      There's a silent standoff between the three of them for a moment, before Rollins sighs. "We _really_ don't have time. I wanted to go over some strike plans and see if we could get access to the building beforehand so we have an actual hands on idea of what we're dealing with," he explains, still not looking at his teammates.

      "And we can still do that after you sleep," Roman replies, as firm and unwavering as a brick wall.

      Dean nods, and his smirk widens. "You ain't gonna win this, Rollins," he says. "So you might as well go to bed before the big guy here _makes_ you."

      Rollins' eyes perk up and he sort of glares at Roman, like he doesn't quite believe or like the idea of that, and the Samoan just continues to stand there with his arms crossed. He opens his mouth, seems to think about it again, then closes it. "Alright." He finally says, and goes to stand. His frown shifts to one of discomfort as he peels himself out of the chair, and Dean watches as Rollins tries his best not to groan in pain and thus prove their point. It's actually pretty entertaining to watch all things considered, and Dean just smirks at Rollins. See what it feels like to incur the wrath of Mama Bear Roman, jerk.

      Rollins lets out a sigh and starts to head towards his room. "Seth," Roman says, catching the half blonde's attention. Roman offers a hand. "Give me your phone."  
Rollins' brows drop and he openly frowns. "Why?"

      "So you don't set an alarm to wake up in an hour."

      Rollins' face turns sour, which just gives away the fact that he was planning to do exactly that, and Dean chuckles as he rolls his eyes and fishes his phone out of his pocket, slapping it into Roman's grasp.

      "There, happy?" He says sharply, and Roman slides the phone into one of the back pockets of his pants.

      "Will be once you go to bed," Roman agrees, and Rollins rolls his eyes again and practically stomps away like a teenager being sent to their room. Dean can't stop smirking because this is fucking gold, honestly.

      He stops though at the mouth of the hallway, but doesn't turn back to look at either of them. "Just, not too long, ok?" He says softly. "We _really_ don't have time."

      "The world ain't gonna to end just 'cause you got some sleep, Seth." Roman replies, with just the same amount of conviction as before, but his tone has softened. "We'll be here, and we can talk when you get up, ok?"

      Rollins just exhales heavily, and stalks back to his room.

      Once the door has shut, Dean glances at the big man, who's kind of dropped his brick wall stance, but still doesn't look all that happy. "Yeah, I feel ya," Dean replies, even though Roman really hasn't said anything. "I half suspected you to follow him in there to make sure he actually sleeps."

      "Don't tempt me," Roman mutters under his breath.

      Dean move towards the kitchen. "Coffee and breakfast?" He asks, gesturing a thumb towards the coffee machine. "Then we can see if we can make heads or tails of any of the things that sleep deprived Rollins came up with."

      Roman tears his eyes away from the hall and glances at Dean, a small reflexive smile on his face that doesn't last more than a second. "Sounds good," he replies, moving into the kitchen as well.

      "We have stuff for french toast?" Dean asks, glancing over his shoulder. "Today feels like a french toast kinda day."

      "It does," Roman agrees.

 

***

      Hours later, as Seth wanders—still a little sleepily—back into the kitchen, he sees both Ambrose and Reigns, sitting close, both with their heads leaning over the building blueprints, pointing and talking quietly.

      Originally, he didn’t have any intention of sleeping any more. There was still too much to do in his brain and not enough time to do it in, but the second that his body sat down on his matress, it seemed to override all of his brain’s plans and knock him completely out. By the time he had awoken again, nearly four whole hours had passed.

      He hasn’t intentionally slept past dawn like this since they all started at NXT.

      As he approaches, both Reigns and Ambrose look up. He’s almost half suspecting them to be mad that he’s up already, scold him and send him back to bed,but Reigns reaches to clear a little spot for him in front of the only other clear chair—the other one has files stacked on it—and Ambrose points a thumb over towards the fridge.

      “French toast, eggs, and bacon,” is all he says, before leaning over the papers again. Seth watches him scribble something on a notepad.

      He’s about to politely decline, opens his mouth to do so, when once again, his body overrides him, and his stomach growls rather loudly, causing him to flush and close his mouth.

      “Grab a plate,” Reigns says. “We can go over some of the stuff Dean and I have been talking about,”

      Seth nods, for some reason not trusting his voice anymore, and wanders into the kitchen.

 

      Once he’s got his food and he’s at the table—carefully eating to avoid dripping any crumbs—Ambrose looks up from his notes.

      “So Big Man here—” He says, casually hitting Reigns lightly in the arm, “—and I agree with you. We should get into that building if we can.”

      Seth blinks and swallows his forkful of eggs. “Yeah?”

      “It’s one thing to sit and look at blueprints for hours on end,” Reigns replies, gesturing to said plans. “It’s another thing if we can be there and learn the area before the time comes.”

      “Gives us more of an edge,” Ambrose agrees, tapping his pencil at hyper speeds against the wood of the table.

      Seth nods along, taking another forkful of french toast. “I’m glad we’re in agreement on that,” He says through a thoughtful chew.

      “If you wanna go when you’re done eating,” Reigns says. “We can see about getting in.”

      Seth smiles, a sense of relief that he can’t quite describe running through him. Was he worried that Reigns and Ambrose were going to look at his plans and notes and think all of them were garbage? Was he afraid they weren’t going to agree with what he said? It’s not like they haven’t disagreed with one another before—Ambrose especially—but maybe he’s just relieved that everything seems to be going rather smoothly for this operation all things considered. It’s just a nice feeling is all, being on the same page without worry.

      “Get the lead out Rollins,” Ambrose says, standing up from the table. “I wanna get there before day of please.”

      “Dean,” Reigns admonishes softly before Seth can say anything, but Ambrose just scoffs.

      “Not _my_ fault _we_ already got our sleeping and eating out of the way,” he half teases, sending a pointed look Seth’s way.

      Seth just rolls his eyes and flips Ambrose off. “Was my idea to go there in the first place, dick.”

      “It was my idea to get the files and make the french toast, what’s your point?” the taller man replies, narrowing his eyes and gesturing with open hands and a shit-eating grin.

      “And it’s _my_ idea that you both shut the hell up and get on with it,” Reigns snaps suddenly in that weirdly intense deadpan of his, standing up from the table.

      Ambrose raises his hands in mock surrender, and says in almost a sing-song tone. “Ok, Mom, we’ll stop fighting.”

      Reigns’ replies so dryly that it actually shocks a kind of sputtering laugh out of Seth. “One can only dream.”

      Seth stands now as well. “Alright, let’s call some people about a building, shall we?”

 

***

      Once again, after a few phone calls from Rollins, they get access and a ride to the building. Dean’s not so sure he wants to ask exactly _how_ the half blonde talked his way into it, but like Rollins’ always says. He’s good at his job.

      Once the escort drops them off at their destination—not too far from the NXT grounds but far enough to be considered out of the way—they’re let in and given keys to the place. From the outside, it looks fairly nondescript, and once they enter, Dean can’t help but notice as they walk through each room that while it looks clean, it doesn’t seem like it’s used all that often. Must be one of those buildings WWE owns for stuff like this, maybe for a safe house or getaway or something. Really, with WWE, it could be anything.

      “And this….” Rollins trails off, half talking to himself, half to his teammates, “Is the largest room in the place.” He steps through the doorway, blueprints in hand, and Dean and Roman follow suit.

      While the three of them have never been in this room before, the extensive studying of the schematics leaves Dean with a sense of recognition about the place. Stepping further in, he sighs as he glances up and around the room. "I hate it when they end up being bigger on the inside. Think it would be too much to ask for them to sequester them all off in this room the whole time?" He jokes, his voice bouncing off the walls just slightly due to the breadth and emptiness of said room.

      "Don't want to make it _too_ easy for us," Roman replies, also taking in the room at hand. "Feels like just as much of a test for us as it is for them."

      "Which is why we're planning and drilling," Rollins chimes in, glancing up from the schematics. "Luckily for us they're going to be putting them all in this room before everything starts—" he trails off slightly as he compares the blueprints to the room. "and there's only two points of exit and entry _in_ this room. The North-East side, and the South-West side," he adds, gesturing to said doorways.

      "North-East side is pretty wide, and the most visible from all angles, so there may be a chance that more of the inexperienced trainees will try to go through there," Roman says, stepping over towards it.

      "Which could potentially lead to them getting grouped together like sheep, depending on how many try to do that," Dean offers, leaning against one of the walls of the rather empty room. Almost looks like a really big conference room, or like a big foyer or something, even though it wouldn't technically be called that since it's not the front of the building. Is there a fancy word for a room that looks like a foyer but isn’t a foyer?

      "While some may think that the path of least resistance and movement would be best, the more experienced trainees will probably aim for the South-West side as soon as they get into the room an assess it," Seth replies, moving closer to said doorway.

      "What's on the other side of the South-West exit again?" Dean calls.

      "Pretty sure they’re using it as a kitchen!" Rollins calls back.

      Dean nods. Maybe it’s a cafeteria? Weird to have it carpeted. Also definitely not as fancy as a foyer.

      "Do you know how many rooms they're going to be taking them through before they get to here?" Roman asks, running a hand across the frame of the North-East entrance. "Those are the rooms that we should focus on the most."

      Rollins nods. "Since there are only two ways to get in here, and one of them is through a kitchen, I'd wager they're taking them through the North-East side. Introduce them into the room through the most familiar exit point will make it so more trainees attempt to go through there."

      "So one of us should maintain focus on the North-East side," Dean extrapolates, shrugging like it's nothing. The more they talk it out while in the space, the more it's coming together. It’s like playing keep away but instead of keeping a toy away from a kid you gotta keep a trainee in a building. Pretty much the same concept, really.

      "Probably two of us..." Rollins says, trailing off. "There's a hallway with three potential rooms, one of which leads to one of the ways out."

      "And how many ways out are there?" Roman asks.

      Rollins leans in to look closer at the schematic. "Three actual doorways. And unless someone finds a safe way to the roof, I don't think there are any others."

      "You think we should split our power dynamic up that much, having two of us man North-East exit?" Roman asks, and Rollins shrugs.

      "Do we happen to know what anyone has told the recruits what [their] objective is?" Dean asks too. "Because that would probably make this a hell of a lot easier if we could just stop them from doing what they need to do."

      Rollins sighs and rolls the schematics up for now, stuffing them under his armpit. "Could be a lot of things." He counts on his fingers as he walks towards Dean and Roman. "Could be a 'try not to get taken down.' Could be a 'try to get out before the time limit'. Could be 'Stay away from your attackers until the time limit ends'. Hell, they could just be put in here without anything, and they have to figure it out themselves."

      Dean sneers. "I hated those."

      Rollins nods absently, then sets the rolled up plans against the wall next to him. “We should start warming up and doing some movement drills,” he says. “Get the blood pumping and get used to moving in the space, what do you think?”

      Roman shrugs. “Sounds good,” he replies, starting to remove his heavier outdoor clothing.

      Dean sheds his jacket, rolling his neck and shoulders after he does so. “Yeah, yeah, let’s do it already.”

 

      " _Again_ , we gotta be able to move as quickly as possible!" Seth shouts, jogging back to the South side of the room.

      Ambrose, on the North side of the room, has his hands on top of his head as he pants lightly, throwing a glare his way. "We've done this drill like ten times already, how much faster do we possibly need to go?"

      Seth just smirks. "What, you getting soft now that you're not doing drills every day?"

      Ambrose flips him off as he approaches, Reigns following suit, albeit panting more than both of them, his hands on his hips. "I can run circles around you any day, Rollins and you fucking know it."

      "Was thinking," Reigns says, heaving a sigh. "You think cutting the lights would help at all?"

      Seth's mouth quirks in thought. "I mean, it could be detrimental to us as well unless we manage to get a request through for some night vision goggles." He shrugs. "And those things can get clunky."

      "Damn," Reigns replies, staring off wistfully at the lights.

      Seth sighs. "Alright, I think we're done with running."

      Ambrose sags a little. "Fucking finally!"

      Seth ignores him, but rolls his eyes. "I think now we should try some strike drills."

      Ambrose sags more. "How so?" He asks, rather dryly. Seth ignores the tone in favor of answering the question.

      "I think one of us should stand guard at the North-East Doorway, and the others should try to get through. We can try it a couple of different ways and rotations, kind of get a feel of trying to work against and stop more than one opponent, you know?"

      "If I get to hit you, I'm all in," Ambrose replies with a tight smile.

      Seth raises his eyebrows at him and smiles. "If you _can_."

      Ambrose's brows fall and he flips Seth off again. "Eat my entire ass, Rollins."

      "Shut up," Reigns interrupts sharply. "Let's do the damn drills."

      "Alright," Seth says, his smile growing. "You and me versus him first?" He throws a thumb at Ambrose, who sneers.

      "Bring it, shitstain."

      Seth just laughs as they all move into position.

 

***

      They've been going at other drills and maneuvers for hours now, going from room to room, making sure that they memorize the layout and anything that could potentially used as leverage for either them or the recruits. They go over countless ideas, most of them coming from Seth, and honestly, the longer they go at it, despite how tired they all are clearly getting, the better they all start to feel about the whole thing.

      "Alright, I think it would be best if we call it a day," Seth says after the last drill, pushing some of his sweat soaked hair out of his face.

      Roman had given up putting his hair up hours ago. It always falls out and gets in his face anyway, so why not run the drills with it that way when that's probably how he's going to end up regardless. He does push it out of his face as much as he can as well, his lips pulling tight at the wet sweaty feeling. The big man glances down at Dean, who is laying spread eagle on the floor, apparently not caring about how dirty it might be. The younger man's eyes are closed, his messy hair haphazardly plastered across his face with sweat too. Roman gently prods at Dean's side with his boot, and the tawny haired man's eyes open. "What?"

      Roman exhales a short chuckle through his nose. "You fall asleep?"

      "Been at it all day, and the floor feels nice," is what Dean responds with.

      Roman doesn't say much more, but offers a hand to help Dean up in case he wants to take it. He doesn't expect one outcome any more than the other, but a small smile quirks his lips for a second when Dean does in fact take his hand and let himself be hauled up.

      He rotates his neck and one of his shoulders, groaning lightly at the slight crunch of both of them. "Eating sounds nice. We should go eat."

      "Not a shower?" Roman teases softly, taking a step away as if Dean's smell is offensive. It's not too bad really, just smells like sweat and deodorant, really.

      "Look, if I could do both at the same time I would," Dean replies. "But since I can't and my stomach feels like it might eat itself, it's food first."

      Roman eyes Dean's waist. "Wouldn't have much of itself to eat."

      A smile spreads across Dean's face, enough that shows his dimples, just a little. "You're in another jokey mood aren't you?" He steps closer. "Or have you secretly always been this snarky and you just keep it back most of the time?"

      His smile widening, Roman steps away. "The world may never know."

      “Now you just sound like the fucking owl from those lollipop commercials.”

 

 

***

      While Dean wants to go out for food, his idea gets vetoed by both Roman and Seth, on account of the fact that they’ve been running drills all day and are exhausted, sweat soaked, and neither of them really want to be around any people right now, even if it’s just getting fast food. Dean thankfully goes along with them without too much of a fuss. All it took was both Roman and Seth giving up taking a shower before Dean and not complaining if he took most of the hot water, which to Roman, was a pretty fair trade for not having to deal with staying out any longer than they have been.

      Dean takes his sweet time making food for himself though, being a shit and eating slower than he usually would, and actually eating at the table instead of eating whatever was in his hand as he moved around. He smiles at Roman and Seth like he’s being perfectly innocent, the little shit, and Roman only _just_ resists the urge of bodily picking him up once he’s done eating and tossing his ass into the shower and turning on the water with him in there clothes and all.

      Thankfully, Dean seems to have done being a shit—for now at least—and finally does start to take a shower.

      Knowing it’s probably going to be a while with Dean making them promise they won’t complain about him using all of the hot water, Roman grabs a water bottle from the fridge and plops himself down on the couch next to Seth with a heavy sigh. Today was long with the lack of sleep, but in all honesty, he knows it for the better. Once all this is said and done he knows it’ll be worth it. They’ll have another notch in their belt and they’ll have helped future Agents. Just right now it kind of sucks, especially since he doesn’t even really have the energy to reach over for the remote and turn something on just to have as background noise.

      “Honestly, if we do more of that, go over different plans here for the next couple of days,” Seth says suddenly, a small smile on his face as he curls a stray piece of blonde hair out of his eyes. “I think we have the chance of having a really good demonstration.”

      Roman nods, taking a deep pull from his water bottle. “Thanks for getting the files and the plans,” he says afterwards.

      Seth half shrugs. “It was Ambrose’s idea,” he says, his tone tinged in a way where it sounds like it hurts him a little to admit that. “Just went and got ‘em.”

      “Which is _good_ ,” Roman emphasizes. When Seth doesn’t say much else, the big man sighs. “You’re making progress, you know.”

      Seth glances up from underneath his brows, seeming a little taken aback by the comment. “You think?”

      Roman takes another drink. “I mean, it’s slow, and you still bicker like damn children, but you’re working together. You’re both starting to take the other seriously.”

      Seth snorts out a sarcastic laugh out of his nose. “The guy called me shitstain earlier .”

      Roman raises a brow. Honestly. “I said it was slow progress.”

      Seth laugh is more genuine now, and it cracks his lips into a wry smile. “That’s good at least. Feels good to be working on something like this again,” he says with a sigh, leaning his head back against the couch.

      “You always did like figuring things out, making plans. From what I remember.”

      Seth shrugs again. “It’s what I’m good at.”

      “Damn good thing too,” Roman says, nudging his shoulder with Seth’s.

      There’s actual comfortable silence between the both of them for a moment, Seth looking up at the ceiling and Roman occasionally taking a drink from his water, then Seth says softly. “You’re making progress too.”

      A little bit of water gets caught in Roman’s throat and he clears it, pulling the water bottle away from his face. He glances at Seth. “How so?” He asks, trying to calculate what the other man could be talking about. Sure, they’re all working together better, but he’s never really had trouble working together with anyone. It’s always been fairly easy for him to be able to blend in with a team, balance out anything they might have needed. Besides, he’s the one who’s been acting like a damn parent to the two of these knuckleheads, really looking at the experiment that Punk’s put them on for what it is despite their differences and—

      “You’re talking more,” Seth shrugs, looking away as if it were a throwaway comment. “I mean, you were known for being the guy who just _did_. I know you’re probably one to think that ‘actions speak louder than words’ or whatever, but I think that it’s kinda nice getting to hear the guy behind the actions, you know?”

      Roman blinks, thrown a little off balance. “Thanks,” is all he can really think to say.

      Seth rolls his head so he’s looking at the older man, a small smile making his teeth and the gap between the two front ones show. “Even though it’s turning out that you’re kind of a Mom.”

      Roman rolls his eyes and nudges Seth’s shoulder harder than before, making the half blonde laugh as he’s shoved over.  “Shut up Uce.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I know that having it be another set up/in between chapter after coming back from hiatus is not the most exciting thing in the world, but the action is coming next chapter, I promise. In the meantime, we had some fun interactions between the boys, right?
> 
> Also, I didn't do quite as many read-throughs as I usually do, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the fact that I missed an update two weeks ago. Long story short my day job was a nightmare and I actually got really sick, to the point where the only thing I could do was sleep or be miserable.
> 
> But, I'm feeling much better and I have a new chapter for you all! Thank you all so much for your patience and you're continued love. It's still amazing to me how many people like the stuff I write lol. Anyways, let me know if there's anything that's glaringly wrong that I missed, and let's get on with it!

 

***

      The day before the mission, all three of the Shield members head to the demonstration building almost immediately after breakfast so that they have essentially the entire day to work through more plans and drills.

      Once they get there, all three of them fueled artificially with coffee, they start with the drills they had been working with before, moving around the space and inspecting the other rooms adjacent to the largest one, seeing if there's anything that could potentially help and/or hinder them during the demonstration.

      Roman inspects the kitchen, while Dean inspects one of the rooms off shooting from the North-East exit. Seth is writing out something on one of their many notepads, much of which have half scrawled and crossed out ideas covering them.

      Despite the intense amount of time spent in the building, and the probably hundreds of drills and maneuvers and scenarios they’ve worked out at this point, the three of them all agreed that it would benefit them greatly if they had _just_ a bit more of an edge. The problem mostly was due to the fact that the three of them hadn’t quite figured out how exactly they were going to start this demonstration of theirs when there are only two points of entry in the room which will be in full view of everyone in the room. No scaffolding to drop down from, no other passageways to crawl out of. Nothing but plain sight all the way around, and it’s frustrating.

      Roman peers around the kitchen area, chromed out and clean if not a bit more cramped than he thinks it ought to be. He scans, his eyes trying to pick up anything, _anything_ that could be helpful to them.

      Then, in the south western corner of the room, he spots something. He steps for it, hoping that what he’s seeing isn’t just his eyes playing tricks on him. Tucked into the corner, behind a rather large metal shelving unit, is what looks to be a fuse box.

      Stepping more quickly, Roman reaches for it, and flings it open. He can’t help the exclamation that comes out of his mouth as he sees the thing carefully labelled, and one switch named, ‘Cafeteria’, blaring out to him like a beacon.

      “Find something?” Seth peeks his head into the kitchen, his eyes wide in expectation.

      Roman turns and smiles. “Just found our edge.”

 

***

      The three Shield members grow relatively quiet as the time draws near for the start of their mission, each of them probably going over every possible situation that could arise from this demonstration in their heads one last time before all is said and done.

      To Seth, everything feels better than it had yesterday. The inclusion of the lighting element really brings them the edge they were looking for, and he’s confident in their plan and the execution. They’ve done their job, they have planned as much as they can, but you can only anticipate so much. The rest of it now, is up to the recruits. Seth is fairly certain how most of the recruits are going to act, but there’s always those who don’t necessarily follow the path that everyone else does.

      Seth glances out of the corner of his eyes as he adjusts his gloves one last time. Ambrose is adjusting his own wrist tape, wrapping it around in a way that Seth has seen only Ambrose do. Reigns is making sure the straps on his tac-vest are strapped down secure and tight, and the three of them still haven’t really said anything to one another. At this point, it feels like they don’t even really need to. The plan is so ingrained in them now that they know what to do, could probably do it blindfolded and in their sleep, and talking about it seems pointless.

 

      The NXT recruits should be arriving at any minute, and the three of them need to seperate soon, each getting to their marks before anyone else arrives, but there’s a moment of silence, of hesitance between them.

      The, Ambrose offers a closed fist forward, and breaks the silence. "Let's do this," he says, a smirk on his lips.

      Reigns pushes his own fist forward quickly and without a word, connecting it with Ambrose's. A second later, both of them look expectantly at Seth, and the half blonde hesitates, before pushing one of his own gloved fists forward as well. The three of them maintain contact for a few seconds, neither of them saying anything more, taking those moments to look at one another. A feeling falls over Seth, something akin to calm, trust in his teammates and what they're about to do. Energy seems to flow through the three of them. A mixture of confidence, anticipation, adrenaline, and a few other things that Seth can't quite find the names of right now. Despite that fact, it forces a small but strong smile on Seth's lips. "Let's do this," he agrees.

      "Sierra."

      "Hotel."

      "India."

      "Echo."

      "Lima."

      "Delta."

      Even when Seth pulls his fist away, it's almost like he can still feel the energy from his teammates coursing through him, and it hits him. This feeling....it's like with the three of them working together, they can accomplish anything.

      As the three of the adjust the skull masks on the lower halves of their faces, Ambrose says. "Ass kicking time, boys." Seth can hear the smile on the tawny haired man's lips. It forces one of his own.

      "Agents to position," He says. "Let's kick some ass."

 

***

      The anticipation is nearly making him want to vibrate out of his skin. The waiting, the waiting is _always_ the hardest part. He just wants to go, go, go, but even Dean knows that there's a right time for everything.

      This will probably be one of the things that puts them on the radar of probably ever Agent in the company. This demonstration with the recruits is gonna show WWE who they are, reveal Triple H's own little task force, and that said task force is a force to be reckoned with.

      From his vantage point, he can't see the NXT recruits being trailed into the large room he and the rest of the Shield have practically lived in for the past few days, but he can definitely hear them. Rollins is past the kitchen at the South-West part of the building, just waiting to kill the lights. The plan is simple enough, which is nice. Since there isn't a place where they can drop down from or appear from that won't completely alert any of the recruits, Rollins will cut the lights, which will alert said recruits that the demonstration is beginning. Hopefully the trainers will have informed the NXT trainees that everything is just a demonstration, so it will lure them into a false sense of security, and won't cause a huge ruckus and panic once the lights go out. After entering the room, he and Roman will shut and lock the North-East doors as silently as they can, and carefully maneuver their way into the room, staying as close to the walls as possible since they figure the trainers are going to gather the trainees at the center of the room. Then, before too many of them can spread out, he and Roman will reach their destination points and Rollins will throw the lights back on and the attacks will begin.

      They've timed everything down to the second, hours and hours of making their steps as silent as possible, seeing how quickly they can maneuver through the room in total darkness and how silently they can do it. With how much they've practiced it almost feels ingrained in his system now. He can see the room, even in his mind's eye, and he can practically feel electricity buzzing underneath his skin.   

      All he has to do now, is wait. Dean listens, his ears straining to hear the trainers speaking to the recruits. He can't make out much with how far away he is, but he hears a little murmur run over the crowd of trainees in there. There are a lot of them, but Dean is ready. He's fucking ready.

      The trainers finally finish their speech—Dean doesn't miss those at _all_ —and they start to step out of the room. "Ninety seconds," he hears over his comm-link. "Once you're in the dark, it'll be another ninety seconds to get to your points. Count in one one thousand time. Starting....now."

      "Roger," Dean replies absently, yet softly, starting to count in his head. He then methodically starts shaking out his shoulders, then his arms, then his wrists, then his hands. It'll be easy to tell when to strike as soon as the lights go out, and hopefully none of the trainees think that they need to spread out too much or try to head out of that room too early. Dean can feel his energy build, the closer he gets to ninety seconds, and right as he ends on the 'd' of 'ninety one thousand', the lights go out, just like clockwork.

      Dean is immediately on the move, unable to help smirking at the exclamations from the recruits as he approaches the North-East Entrance. He takes the left side of the entrance, approaching carefully but still able to see it in his mind's eye. Six, seven, eight steps and he knows he's in, reaching carefully for the door jamb to be sure. It doesn't seem like any of the recruits have made their ways completely to the doors yet, which is a blessing, and he continues to count in his head the amount of time they have left before Rollins flips the lights on again. It's not an enormous detriment if they don't exactly get to their marks by the time ninety seconds hits, just as long as they have the room separating both of them. Luckily, Roman appears by his side—can just feel that it's the big man—and they reach to close the doors, and Dean thanks whatever power in the universe makes the doors not squeak as they close. Dean half listens to the trainees half counts, and they're starting to get wise.

      "This is obviously to confuse us, try to get us to panic," a feminine voice tries to say over the low din of murmurs and speculations of the other recruits. "We just have to stay calm and search for the exits and see if someone can find a way to turn the lights back on."

      The lock clicks shut, and Roman stores it away. They have forty five seconds to reach their points. They're right on time. Separating without a sound, Dean quickly but carefully steps around the perimeter, keeping a hand against the wall and counting his steps now, knowing that once he reaches thirty five that he'll be right where he needs to be. He just prays that he doesn't bump into anyone who's trying the same idea, reaching for the walls so they can find a way out. This is the part that has the most variables before the actual strike begins. In the dark with unpredictable targets, anything can happen. He counts in time with his steps in his head, breathing in and out as evenly as he can despite his adrenaline starting to rise.

      Something happens though, he does in fact bump into someone, almost full bodily, and he curses sharply in his head. "Oh, sorry, trying to find the wall," a small voice says through a forced laugh, and Dean swallows and just reacts. He reaches up to pull his mask aside just enough so that it doesn't muffle his voice, and he says quietly, "Think on of the doors is the other way, I've found jack so far."

      "Ok, that sounds good. Get all turned around when it's pitch black like this," the voice replies, another little laugh finding its way out of their mouth. As they speak, Dean pulls his mask back into place and carefully steps around them, patting them on the shoulder. "Good luck" he murmurs. That was too fucking close for his own good.

      Unfortunately, with his little encounter, he's lost count on how many seconds he has left. He knows he has about ten steps left, and probably half the amount of time he needs to get there. So he tries as carefully as he can to book it, his hand brushing against the wall as he steps, trying to move fast and take as little space as possible so he doesn't run into anyone again.

      "Three one thousand," Rollins says over the comm when Dean's still five steps away. He can make it, he can make it! "Two one thousand.....One one thousand. Engage!"

      Dean steps right into place as soon as Rollins says engage, and the lights flip on again all at once. It takes his eyes several moments to adjust, but as soon as he makes eye contact with Roman on the other side of the room, he springs into action on the unsuspecting and still disoriented recruits.

      He doesn't even register who's in front of him, all he does is clothesline them, sending them sprawling into the ground. It doesn't look like one of the High Profilers, which is a shame.

      What's not a shame though, is that the recruits didn't get very far in the three minutes since the trainers left. That's something on their side at least.

      As soon as both Roman and Dean choose a first victim to take down though, the entire room goes into almost pandemonium, just like the three of them had planned. The recruits are all acting on instincts and training now, which is the point, but as they launch themselves at the two Agents with unplanned strikes and takedowns, the Shield members easily counter them and send a lot of them to the ground as well.

      The room splits into several groups very quickly. Two groups have decided on focusing their attention on Dean and Roman, trying to gang up on the two of them. They’re unfortunately are few and far between, as it seems the rest of the trainees seem to have decided that they need to get the hell out of there instead of stand and fight. No messages are getting across from any of them, shouts and half formed ideas and plans all shouting into the air and not gaining any traction.

      One group of people—Dean is hoping the more inexperienced ones, are heading towards the locked North-East, exit, and a smaller group, is heading towards the South-West, exit, where Rollins is hiding. As Dean reverses and dodges several attacks aimed at him, he spots several of their High Profiles heading Rollins' way. He especially spots the profile of one Big 'E' Langston, stomping towards Rollins' hiding place "Targets inbound, Architect!" he says, hoping that his ear piece hasn't fallen out yet.

      He doesn’t get a chance really to see whether or not Rollins heard what he had said, since another recruit comes at him. It strikes him just before he puts his hands up to block their strikes that it’s a girl, and she’s by the feel of it, she’s definitely not pulling any of her punches. While Dean didn’t spend an intense amount of time memorizing every single face he saw in the mountain of profiles that the three of them had poured over a prior to the mission, this one sticks out in his mind as one of the High Profilers, which is good for him at least. He can’t quite pull her name out of his head as he’s dodging and blocking her blows, but the dark hair and pale skin are easily stick out in his mind. Something still ticks a little wrong in him about fighting her, so he spends his time trying to out maneuver her while he throws punches at some of the make trainees who think they can sneak a fast hit in while he’s not one hundred percent paying attention to them.

      Then, he feels a swift and hard punch, right to his kidneys, and the pain is sharp enough to almost make him completely drop to his knees, which in this situation, is the last place he wants to be. He tries to sway back up, growling and breathing harshly through the pain, whipping around to see the dark haired girl, gesturing with arms open wide. “What?” She asks, and honestly, Dean isn’t really expecting the accent. “Too afraid to hit a girl?”

      Dean stands back up at his full height and rolls his neck as he clenches his fists together. “Fuck off,” he growls, and she just laughs at him.

      “Ohhh, so scary,” she teases, putting her fists up as well.

      “Fuck him up, Paige!” Someone shouts behind them, and Dean is officially done with his inhibitions about beating her ass.

      “Your funeral,” he says, putting up his own fists.

      Unfortunately—or not depending on sides—neither of them get a chance to go at one another, since Roman swoops in behind Paige and locks his arms around her head in a sleeper hold. She gaps and her stance falls as she reaches up to try to pry Roman’s arms off of her, but she’s unsuccessful, and within a few seconds, she’s out like a light, falling limp and red faced in his grasp. “As quickly as possible, Fringe,” Roman scolds, just enough for Dean to hear, and the younger man sighs sharply, refocusing on what he needs to do. The remaining recruits near them jump into action as Roman goes to let the Paige girl down as easily as he can while still in the middle of the chaos.

      Dean turns sharply and goes for the first person he sees, aiming his frustrations right at them with a well places headbutt that sends the guy sprawling to the ground.

      Roman and he stand back to back then, ready for the recruits falling in on them. Dean has just enough wherewithal to see that some of the trainees are trying to bash the heavy North-Eastern doors open, but he can’t worry about it too much now, they’re too far away and there are too many people in their way right now. He tilts his head just enough to say so that Roman can hear him. “Circling offence?”

      “Nothing too fancy,” Roman agrees quickly, and the two of them are off again.

      With the both of them, even the amount of trainees that head their way and try to get a strike in or try to gang up on them, they fall into a groove of almost a well choreographed dance, weaving in and out of one another and the others almost as easy as breathing. Sure, they get hit here and there, their stamina slowly wearing down at the face of so many different opponents, but it’s nothing like how the NXT forces are dwindling, either knocked out, flung away, or too afraid to even try to hit the two Agents who take everything they throw at them and hurl it back with seemingly little effort.

      Unfortunately, Rollins doesn’t seem to be in the same boat, as a familiar shout of pain rings through the air, and Dean glances over to see Rollins being picked up and thrown jarringly to the ground by Big E.

      He’s practically across the room from them, but with him on the ground with so many High Profilers near him, he’s a sitting duck. “Architect!” He alerts to Roman, who whips around as well.

      “Let’s go,” he replies with a nod, and they take to a run.

      They cross through half of the distance between them before most of the trainees even know what they’re doing. Even as they try to stop them, both Dean and Roman either dodge them or barrel through them like they’re nothing. However, Dean _does_ gets caught up with someone who anticipates his strike just in the right way and sends him sprawling. Although he rolls as he lands and springs back up, he’s lagged behind Roman now, who continues on, bolting towards Rollins as fast as he can. Dean knows the Samoan is going to go for Big E, who—along with a few others—try to kick at Rollins while he’s down. Dean doesn’t have time to watch as he trades blows with the man who threw him away, but he hears it, hears the roar and swears he hears the impact of Roman throwing his entire weight against Big E’s back.

      Dean goes for the guy’s neck in a quick and practiced movement, cinching him into a sleeper hold that doesn’t last more than thirty seconds, but it’s enough. Unfortunately for the guy, Dean isn’t as careful as Roman and just lets him drop right out of his arms.

      Turning, Dean bolts without thought towards his teammates who are both back up and fighting tooth and nail, close quarters against the South West edge of the building, resolutely trying to fight off the group of High Profilers that have encroached on both of them. Dean flings his body without much thought or care, landing a fist against the head of a unsuspecting recruit. He knows it’s supposed to be non-lethal, but the blood is pumping through his brain, and the adrenaline coursing through him is reaching his peak, and right now, all his brain is focused on is beating down the next person in his way.

      His ‘maneuver’ surprises some of the trainees, which gives the Shield ample opportunity to regroup, and the three of them stand together, fists raised, ready for anything.

      It’s like a whirlwind when the three of them are together, and their opponents almost start dropping like flies, one after another, until only a few High Profilers are left. Big E stands among them, and heads for Seth again, but neither Roman or Dean give him a chance to. All three of them attack him at once, and something between them clicks without words. The three of them quickly hoist the man up over their shoulders and start to run, basically using Big E as a human battering ram before throwing him away. A little sick sense of pride rushed through Dean as he hears him slamming to the ground with an echoing _smack_!

      A voice booms suddenly, above all noise, across the room, bouncing off the walls and into the ears of every single person in that space, and it’s like time stops. “Agents, Trainees, _disengage!_ ”

      The three Agents and everyone around them freeze at that voice, an ingrained response at this point. "Triple H," Dean hears someone nearby them breathe in the crowd, as the COO for the entirety of WWE and the creator of NXT himself steps into the room, along with the NXT trainers. He stops at the head of the room, just as everyone finally pulls themselves together.

      While NXT was—is—Triple H's pet project, his baby, he doesn't have a lot of time to spend overseeing it in person. Seeing the man here now, unexpected and unannounced, kind of hardens something unpleasant in Dean's stomach, just a little bit.

      "NXT Recruits, it's good to see you," Triple H says amiably, a little louder than normal since he's addressing the crowd. "You're probably wondering what's going on..."

      There's a murmur of assent around Dean and the other Shield members, glancing around, even though Roman and Rollins still look as through they're ready for action or for a command at any moment.

      "As you've probably already realized, this was not a normal demonstration," The elder man says, carefully placing his arms behind him at almost a parade rest. It's probably meant to look welcoming, but it doesn't fool Dean one bit, especially with the man's suit. "This was a combination of several goals all uniting under one operation," He continues, "and from what I gathered, everything has gone exactly according to plan."

      "Of course he was fucking watching," Dean mutters underneath his breath, like he should be fucking surprised that Triple H wasn't watching their every move. He glances up at the ceiling briefly. No fucking duh they would have cameras set up in here, probably enough so that Trips could see everything from every fucking angle. Probably had night vision recording and shit too.

      "You're probably also wondering who _these_ men are as well," Triple H says, gesturing towards the three Shield members. The man's smile only gets wider. "NXT recruits, allow me to introduce you to The Shield."

      Dean just holds back his snarl enough to a sneer as all eyes become directed on them. "Motherfucker," he growls softly, clenching his fists at his sides. They're going to be paraded around now, he can just _feel_ it.

      "Agents," Triple H nods once, and that's an order if he's ever heard one. He glances over as he sees Rollins move, approaching the elder man. Dean contains his grimace as much as he can as he too moves, approaching his boss if only for the fact that all eyes are on them. His fists however are still clenched at his sides, and hopefully, everyone takes it for him being still ready to strike.

      The three of them assemble by Triple H, and he gestures. "Agents Rollins, Reigns, and Ambrose, respectively." He then looks out to the crowd of what looks like to Dean a mixture of confusion, anger, and skepticism. He doesn't blame them. This wasn't part of the fucking deal. "As I said, these men are the members of the Stable known as the Shield. They are full time Agents with WWE, and hopefully, you will not learn their faces too well." Another nod, another voiceless order, and Dean pulls on every facial cue training he's ever had to school his face into neutrality as the three of them remove their masks.

      Some brave or idiotic soul must find it smart to interrupt Triple H in the middle of what no doubt is going to be a monologue to ask. "And why the hell were we just attacked by Agents of our _own_ organization?"

      The question causes a murmur of agreements and other hushed questions from the crowd, and Triple H raises a single hand, and the place goes almost silent again. Dean feels a slight shiver run down his back for a brief moment. That amount of power and authority without any words....someone to be wary of indeed.

      He's still smiling though, looking more pleased with himself than anything as he clasps his hands behind him again. "Because that's the Shield's job." Another surge of murmurs runs through the crowd, and Dean tries desperately to keep his cool by staring at one point on the wall and using all of his energy to focus on it. The grip on his mask is still tight and he doesn't think he can change that no matter how much he tries. This _bastard_.

      Said bastard starts to pace in front of the crowd, as he opens his mouth to no doubt unleash his monologue. "It has come to my attention in recent years, that some Agents in WWE seem to believe that they can simply break protocol, go against direct orders, and undermine authority simply because in their minds....they know better." He turns on his heel and starts to walk again. "There are some of you who may look up to those Agents, and frankly, I would like to nip that in the bud now, rather than later."

      "What do you mean?" Someone asks in the crowd. Dean doesn't see, he's still focused on the wall, the stare only broken by Triple H walking across his path of vision.

      "You see, the reason that WWE has been successful as an organization for as long as it has, is because certain guidelines have been followed. Without these guidelines and precautions, we cannot exist. If every Agent in WWE starting behaving according to their own agendas, their own wants, everything the company has worked for, the safety of every other Agent, and possibly those outside of the organization could be put into extreme danger." The man's voice drops slightly, and he stops pacing. "WWE and our cause and our vision would be stripped away to nothing. Espionage, as it is in its current state, would crumble, and fall apart."

      "The Shield was created and assigned an important task in this company, probably one of the most important tasks of all," he continues. "They are a squad of enforcers, ones who remind those Agents who follow their own agendas that there are consequences for their actions. This demonstration today was just a glimpse of what the Shield can accomplish. The three of them alone managed to keep most if not all of you sequestered in this room, subdued a large grouping of you, and for some of you, throw all of your training out the window." He pauses, as if waiting for someone to protest, but nothing comes. Dean bites his tongue, bites it as hard as he can stand, trying to block it out so as to not make him any angrier than he already is. He's going to throw Rollins off the top of the top of the WWE building at this rate, if he can get that far without throttling the half blonde first.

      "Now I'm not saying that at any transgression that the Shield will be used against you," Triple H clarifies, and Dean would be surprised at how little he believes that were it any other man explaining it. "That's not their mission. They are a reminder that what we do is very serious, and very important, and that rules are made for a reason, and that while you have a lot of power and skill that most people in this world would kill for, you cannot let it go to your head and believe that you know better than those of us who have been at this for longer than some of you have been alive."

      "This was not only a test of the skills you've cultivated, but a demonstration and a warning. I don't want any of you fail, but I can't let the ideals and morals of some Agents foster and grow, do you understand?"

      The crowd murmurs their assent, and while Dean knows that this was bound to happen, that what they are and what they do was going to be brought to light, he wishes that they had a little more fucking warning is all. He doesn't risk even a glance at his teammates, because he feels like he's about to vibrate out of his own damn skin, and he isn't sure that he won't go for Rollins' fucking throat the moment he sees the guy. So he stares forward, unseeing, almost counting the seconds until they're dismissed.  

      Triple H nods. "Good. In the next few days, your trainers will be going over your performance in this demonstration with you, and from now on will be working with you based on said performance, so that we may cultivate your strengths, and work—if any—your weaknesses. All of you recruits are dismissed."

      It takes a moment, but eventually at the behest of Bill and the other trainers, the recruits start to trail out of the room, some of them lagging behind and helping those taken down by The Shield. Dean can’t necessarily see the stares, but he can feel them. Whether they be of awe or of anger or of frustration or intrigue, he can feel them. He still doesn’t dare look away from the spot he’s focused upon on the far wall, lest he lose himself and say or do something incredibly stupid in front of the one man who it is probably the most dangerous to do so. When the NXT group leaves however, Triple H doesn’t follow. He turns on his heel to address the three of them, and Dean takes a measured but quiet breath, before focusing on the man. He’s smiling, and Dean kind of wants to wipe it right off the older man’s face for putting them in the situation he has.

      Honestly, does he have no appreciation or respect for the art of subtlety? Dean studies Triple H’s face with a hard stare. The easygoing smile and pleased look in his eyes doesn’t look fabricated, but with this man, there could be anything hiding underneath the surface. He’s the kind of man that doesn’t do things without reason, so there _must_ be a reason for what he’s done, exposing the Shield for what they are, but Dean can’t think of it—or rather doesn’t particularly want to—anything that would justify the man parading them around like they’re his lap dogs or something. The very idea makes his blood fucking boil.

      “Excellent work gentleman!” The elder man says with outstretched arms. “That was all I anticipated from you and more.”

      “Thank you, Sir.” Rollins says, like the goody fucking two-shoes that he is.

      “Keep this type of work up and you’ll go far, I promise you.” Triple H nods. “We’ll give a full report on the demonstration after the Holidays. You’re dismissed gentleman.”

      With that, the COO turns and leaves the room, and the three Agents fall out of their tense, ‘at attention’ stances.

      None of them speak, none of them even really move until they can no longer hear their superior and he can no longer hear them. Dean waits even that much more, looking at the space where Triple H had been standing with contempt. All the anger, all the frustration and the sheer magnitude of his annoyance finally boils over, and he pivots with a sharp movement.

      Rollins is smiling, and he says, “That went great!” Before Dean punches him straight in his fucking nose.

      “You fucking _asshole_ !” He shouts as Rollins falls away due to the unexpected hit, yelling in pain and clutching at his nose. Dean in on him though, practically straddling him so he can aim more punches. “He just fucking _paraded_ us around like we were his fucking _dogs_!”

      “ _Dean_ !” Roman shouts, but Dean isn’t fucking listening anymore. Rollins isn’t fighting back, shielding his face with his arms but Dean does fucking _care_ . He’s so fucking angry that a fast one has been pulled over him _again_ , and the fucking little shit below him is responsible for all this fucking mess and time and pain and—

      He raises a fist to rain down on Rollins again, when he’s suddenly grabbed in a headlock from behind. He practically roars, struggling against Roman who’s got him cinched in tight. “Let me go! Let me the fuck _go_!”

      “Cool it!” Roman sharply says, wrenching Dean a little bit, like it’ll do anything to cool him down rather than make the fire in his belly all that more strong.

      “ _Fuck you_!” He shouts, still struggling with all his might. “Let me the fuck go so I can bash this asshole’s _fucking_ _face in!_ ”

      “I didn’t know!” Rollins shouts back, slightly muffled where he’s holding his nose, but Dean can hardly hear him over his own struggling. Apparently having enough of Dean’s struggling, Roman uses his not inconsiderable strength to pull Dean directly off of Rollins, but still keeping him in a headlock even though Rollins isn’t in immediate danger again. Suddenly, Roman’s voice booms louder than Dean has ever heard it, right in his ear.

      “ **_DEAN!_ ** _"_

      The sound echoes in the now empty room, and it shocks the younger man enough that he stops struggling for a second. Roman’s voice is softer now, but no less dangerous than before. “He didn’t _know_.”

      Dean swallows as the words finally penetrate his brain. He focuses on Rollins, still sitting a few feet away, clutching at his nose, bright red smeared across his face as he stares right back at Dean.

      He didn’t know.

      “What?” He asks, because he can’t believe it.

      Roman’s grip softens but he still doesn’t let Dean go.

      Rollins sits up fully now, his brows drawn low over his eyes. He pulls his hand away from his face, and there’s blood dripping out of his nose, and blood leaking from a gash right on the bridge, that was probably caused by one of Dean’s knuckles. “I didn’t _know_ he was going to do that, you fucking _asshole_ ,” he swears, blood probably dripping into his mouth. “I wouldn’t fucking _do_ that to you!”

      And with that, he angrily wipes at the blood under his nose with his forearm and stomps away, towards the North-East exit and out. Only when he’s out of sight, does Roman finally let Dean go. He practically pushes Dean down and away, making him sprawl on the carpeted floor.

      “Ro-” he starts, but the elder man whips around, his silver eyes honing in on Dean’s like a hawk, bright and clear in the most open display of anger Dean has ever seen from the other man.

      “ _Save it._ ”

      Dean swallows, and looks down at the ground.

      He fucked up.

      “You stay here,” Roman says. “I’m going to go make sure you didn’t break his damn nose.”

      Dean flinches, just a little, as the elder man steps away without another word. He picks himself up, just enough to be sitting, but doesn’t move further than that. He looks down at his knuckles, smudged in blood. He rubs a thumb over it, smudging it more.

      He sits and waits there without a sound, in the middle of the vast space, all alone, waiting for Roman to come back.

 

 

      That fucking Ambrose has a lot of fucking _nerve_ . Seth grumbles several obscenities tied with Ambrose's name as he clutches at his still bleeding nose, trying to find the bathroom in this fucking place. He probably would have been able to find it from memory due to the intense study of the blueprints, but the demonstration and the subsequent unwarranted punches to the face by one fucking _lunatic_ has left his brain understandably, a little scrambled.

      He does find it eventually, throwing open the door and stalking through with probably more force than is entirely necessary, but he's _pissed_ and in pain, _dammit_.

      "Stupid _fucking_ Ambrose," Seth swears, stomping over to the mirrors so he can assess the damage done to his face.

      It's not good, he can tell that even without a mirror, but as soon as he sees his reflection, he's actually taken aback by how much blood is actually on his face. His nose is still dripping, but there is in fact a split on the bridge of his nose that's slowly oozing blood as well. Muttering under his breath, he turns on his heel quickly to grab a roll of toilet paper out of the stall so he can stuff some up his nose. The gash he can't really do too much about now, only mop up the blood and try to blot it out as quickly as he can. Damn injuries to the head and face area always bleeding shit ton.

      Back at the sink and mirror, Seth removes his bloody gloves, tossing them aside on the counter. He flicks the sink on, quickly running some of the toilet paper underneath the spray. He sniffs out of habit and immediately regrets it, the pain sharp in his nose and the taste of blood flowing down into his mouth. Making a face, he spits into the sink, before leaning in close to the mirror to try to asses the damage done to his nose. Just as he starts to clean the blood away, the door to the bathroom opens, and Seth tenses, clenching his jaw and groaning as it jars his nose. Thankfully though it isn't a stray recruit or fucking Ambrose, but Reigns, who keeps his distance from Seth. The half blonde doesn't know whether or not he's glad for that fact. Mostly, he ignores the big man for the time being, focusing more at the matter at hand, still attempting to clean up his busted face.

      "Broken?" Reigns asks carefully after a moment, and Seth can see him take a few steps closer in the reflection of the glass. He takes notice that Reigns didn't ask whether or not he was ok, which any normal person probably would have asked in his situation. Reigns knows better though, and probably already knows the answer to the question in the first place.

      "Don't know," he responds instead, dabbing carefully at the gash, wishing he had a bandaid or something he could just put over it for now instead of trying to blot at it since it feels like an effort in futility anyway. "Where's Ambrose?" He asks, trying not to sound bitter and angry, but unable to keep it out of his voice.

      "Waiting," Reigns replies, his brows drawn together and his lips a tight line.

      "You think that's wise?" Seth snarks, tossing away the bloody toilet paper in his hand and reaching to unravel more off of the roll. He wets it and continues blotting.

      "He'll stay," Reigns says, and steps closer to Seth.

      Seth sighs, letting his hands drop away from his face. He leans heavily against the counter, glancing at Reigns in the reflection. "What the hell got into him?"

      Reigns shakes his head. "Doesn't matter," he says. Before Seth can protest, the big man adds, "It shouldn't have happened, and he knows it now."

      Seth turns slightly to look at Reigns over his shoulder now. "How could he think that I wouldn't tell him if Mr. Helmsley was going to be here? Does he think I hate him _that_ much?"

      Reigns sighs too, half-leaning and half sitting on the counter next to Seth. He crosses his arms over his chest. "I think sometimes he gets an idea in his head, and he lets the anger take control and boil over."

      "Yeah well, he needs to learn fucking impulse control," Seth snarls, throwing another crumpled bit of bloody toilet paper into the garbage.

      Reigns lifts a placating hand. "Not an excuse, just an explanation."

      A small tinge of Seth's anger dissipates. "Typical him." He tears more toilet paper, using it to shove up his nose so he doesn't sniff again. The blood has slowed, but there's still quite a bit of it coming out of his nose. He doesn’t care if he looks like a fucking idiot. There’s too much blood and it hurts too fucking much and his dignity is pretty much shattered at this point anyway for letting fucking Ambrose get the drop on him. That’s what he gets for letting his guard down around that lunatic.

      "Want me to take a look?" Reigns asks softly, and Seth peers at him out of the corner of his eye.

      Seth's hands drop again, and he turns fully to Reigns. "Sure, why not?" He replies, and doesn't offer much more than that.

      With more grace and care than he thought the big man might have, Reigns carefully reaches for his face, and touches underneath Seth's chin with two fingers. "Tilt up?" He requests, and Seth follows it, even though it makes some of the blood trickle down the back of his throat. He tries to breathe through his mouth so he doesn't have to taste it. Reigns leans in, and Seth stares up at the ceiling as the Samoan inspects.

      A gentle touch to the side of his bridge makes him twitch, which in turn makes him tense and groan as another sharp little pain zips through his nose. Reigns quickly pulls his hand back like it was burned, but Seth speaks, trying to assure him, "It's fine, you just surprised me."

      "How does it hurt?" Reigns asks.

      Seth half shrugs. "Like someone punched me in the nose."

      Reigns lets out a huff, almost akin to a laugh. "More specific would be helpful."

      "It just aches," Seth explains. "But if I tense or move too quickly it turns into a sharp stabbing pain."

      Reigns hums, and leans in a little closer. So close in fact, that his hair brushes Seth's collar bone, and it makes goosebumps prickle up and down the right side of Seth's body.

      "Mind if I touch?" Reigns asks, and Seth shrugs. Another soft touch as Reigns reaches for his nose, but Seth doesn't tense this time. The bigger man turns sort of tilts his head back and forth, looking at it and touching it from different angles. Some of them don't hurt too much more, but there are a few that make another sting zip through his face, especially when Reigns presses a little too hard. "It doesn't look broken," he assesses. "But you're probably going to get at least one black eye."

      Seth grimaces. Perfect, just in time for him to go home to his parents. Just another thing he needs to lie about. He lets out a sigh. "I can get it checked for real back at headquarters," He replies. "Thanks, for checking....and for holding that asshole back so he didn't break open my face any more than this."

      Reigns' arms cross over his chest again, and it doesn't escape Seth's notice how much tension the older man is holding in his shoulders. He's frowning, and his jaw is clenched tightly. It may be a little bit vindictive and perhaps a little morbid of Seth to think so, but it's honestly refreshing to see Reigns so visibly angry at Ambrose. "I'm not going to let this blow over," he says.

      Seth shakes his head, trying once again not to sniff even though a strong urge strikes him to do so. "It's fucking Ambrose," he says, like it's something that can't be helped. "I shouldn't have expected any more from him."

      Reigns visibly works his jaw, like he wants to say something, but doesn't, choosing instead to push away from the sink, uncrossing his arms. "Let's go, the faster you get that checked out the better."

      Seth sighs, sagging a little bit. "I'm already fucking done with today and it's not even remotely over," he says, and tosses the last pieces of bloody toilet paper away, pressing the ones stuffed in his nose a little more securely. At least the gash has stopped bleeding as much.

      When they return to the large room, Ambrose is sitting in the middle of it, his legs crossed and staring down at his hands. Seth hardly even acknowledges him as he steps in, even when Ambrose looks up as they enter.

      “I’m sorry—” he blurts, but doesn’t stand, and honestly, Seth can’t even find it in himself to handle it right now.

      “Get your stuff,” he says, stepping past the man “I need to go to headquarters before we go home.”

      It takes a second before Ambrose speaks again. “Why?”

      And that honestly is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Seth whips around, despite how much is hurts his nose, and points at it. “What the fuck do you think, asshole?!”

      Surprisingly, Ambrose doesn't rise to his anger, just looks at him with furrowed brows. “I didn’t break it,” he says.

      Seth literally has to back away or he’s going to punch Ambrose too. “Oh, I wasn’t aware that you could tell by _touch_ whether or not you’ve broken something. That would’ve been fucking useful to know!”

      Ambrose actually flinches at his shouting, and it would be novel and something that Seth would take notice of were it not for the fact that he’s in pain and angrier than he thinks he’s ever been in his entire life. He does take note of the face however, that beyond his expectations, Ambrose once again doesn’t rise to his yelling. His mouth shuts, and he looks away, almost as if he’s embarrassed.

 _Good_ Seth thinks sharply, vindictively, and stalks towards the room where they had their stuff stashed, not even giving the other man second glance.

 

      Roman sighs and puts his hands on his hips as he approaches Dean. The tawny haired man adamantly doesn’t look up at him, and Roman is struck by how much he looks like a dog who knows he’s done something wrong but won’t look his person in the eye, like ignoring it is just going to make it all go away. Roman doesn’t break the silence, just watches Dean, whose fingers are tapping wildly on his legs. It gets worse the longer he stares and the longer the silence between the, stretches, and just when Roman is about to give up and walk away, Dean resolutely says, “I didn’t break it.”

      All the hope that Dean would be accountable for his mistake falls out of Roman with a sigh, and he shakes his head. Unbelievable. “That’s not the point,” he says, and he doesn’t even have it in him to make his voice sound anything more than disappointed and tired. “Get up, let’s go.”

      He doesn’t even wait to see if Dean’s following him once he turns to follow where Seth’s gone, but it does raise his spirits just a little bit that he hears Dean get up and follow after him. “‘M sorry,” he says, under his breath.

      Roman glances over his shoulder. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” he says.

      Dean makes a face. “I already—”

      “A _real_ one,” Roman interrupts, his voice gaining that sharper edge because he’s about one thousand percent done with Dean’s deflective attitude right now. “And only if you actually mean it.”

      More silence follows as they continue on through the maze of outer rooms, nothing but the sounds of their boots on the different floor surfaces to accompany them.

      Dean breaks the silence again. “I fucked up.”

      Roman nods, but doesn’t look back at him. “Yes, you did.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest I'm not overly proud of this chapter, but I knew that if I kept trying to re-work it and kept staring at it that it wasn't going to go anywhere or get any better. So I apologize if this isn't as polished or as good as my other chapters!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supremely sorry for the delay everyone, but I was busier than I thought this month! I hope you all enjoy!

***

 

 _Click, click, click._ Silence.

 

    _Click, click, click_. Silence.

 

    _Click, click, click._ Silence.

 

     That's been the background music to Roman's life for about four or so hours now. It's probably been going on much longer than that, but Roman's only been aware of it for that amount of time.

      _Click, click, click._ Silence.

     Roman resists the urge to sigh deeply. At first, he was content to ignore the noise, figuring it would go away in time. He would ignore it and everything would be fine. He stopped thinking that about two hours ago.

 _Click, click, click._ Silence.

     It's Dean, with his cube. Staring off into space, not even looking at it, but fiddling with it in a pattern that Roman can't discern whether Dean is doing on purpose, or if it's just something he's doing.

 _Click, click, click._ Silence.

     He's probably been like this ever since they got home last night after the demonstration. As they rode in the car and stopped at headquarters, Dean had been rubbing his hands together, picking stray strands on every piece of his clothing and had eventually graduated to chewing and ripping the dead skin off of his lips until he did it hard enough he actually bled. Thing was though, he had hardly said a word the entire time. Roman hasn't heard him speak at all today either. The slighter man has dark circles under his eyes, more prominent than normal, which means, he's probably been at this since last night.

 _Click, click, click._ Silence.

     He'd ask Dean to stop, but this is better than him absently picking at skin on his hands or his lips, making himself bleed. So he's been trying to ignore it.

     It would be nice to know what Dean's thinking about while he's doing it, but Roman isn't even entirely sure he's fully there. Roman's been watching, not obtrusively, but just enough to notice that there are times when you can fairly certainly see Dean thinking, his eyes flicking about almost in rhythm with the clicking. However, there have been moments when Roman's looked over and it's almost like there's nothing in his teammate's eyes, hands moving on autopilot.

 _Click, click, click._ Silence.

     Roman's not sure Dean's eaten anything since yesterday either, which makes him worry, more than a little bit. Roman knows the altercation between Dean and Seth was bad, and he can admit that he probably could have handled it better himself in the moment, but he can't fathom what about it could have sent Dean into.... _this_.

     If Roman were honest with himself, yes, he's still pretty pissed off at Dean for attacking Seth without any provocation or grounds to his anger. Yes, he's still not going to let this slide, but whatever is happening with the other man, is not productive. He's only tried talking to Dean once this entire time—right about when he came upon the younger man sitting and clicking in the loveseat first thing this morning—and Dean hadn't even flinched, didn't even _look_ in his general direction. He'd been a little thrown off by that, a little worried, and now, it's gotten to the point where there probably needs to be an intervention before Dean fidgets himself to death.

    _Click, click, click._ Silence.

     In the silence interval, Roman gently places a bookmark into his book—he hadn't really been reading more than the same paragraph for about half an hour anyway—and places it on the coffee table. He glances up at Dean, and the man is staring at the far wall. There doesn't seem to be a faraway look in his eyes however, so there's a plus.

 _Click, click, click._ Silence.

     "Dean?" Roman asks softly. He doesn't get an answer, but he waits for another silence interval and speaks a little louder. "Dean?"

     Dean still doesn't answer.

     A little irk of irritation rushes through Roman, because by this point, he _knows_ that Dean can hear him. However, the big man takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and lets it out, letting the anger drain out of him. He'll deal with it another time.

     He stands, and Dean continues to click away, in the same exact pattern, staring at the far wall.

     Roman knows this probably isn't smart, but he hasn't gotten anywhere yet, and this needs to stop. He carefully steps towards Dean, slowly, and reaches out to place just the tips of his fingers—barely any weight at all—against one of Dean's shoulders.

 _Click—cli-click._ Silence.

     A break in the pattern.

     A good sign?

     "Dean?" Roman tries again, and his teammate finally moves his head, slowly looking at Roman's fingers touching his shoulder, and using his eyes to follow the arm all the way up to Roman's face. Roman's more than a little pleased that there's at least some recognition in the younger man's eyes. He's a little less pleased however at how _tired_ Dean looks.

     "What?" Dean's voice sounds like the roughest of gravel, unused as he looks up at Roman, still a rather blank look on his face.

     Instead of asking, 'What are you doing?' or 'Are you ok?'—the latter of which he already knows the answer to—Roman says, "Want some food?"

     Dean blinks at him then, his fingers still poised on the buttons and switches of his little cube, and Roman watches him lick at his cracked and peeling lips once before swallowing. "What time is it?"

     "Little after nine," Roman replies, just as softly, not wanting to jar Dean.

     Dean looks down at his hands, at the cube, and Roman almost verbally protests, but swallows it in favor of putting a little more weight on Dean's shoulder with his hand. Dean is silent for a _long_ moment, and Roman is almost worried he's going to go back to clicking, when another soft question comes out of Dean's mouth. "In the morning?"

     He almost sounds embarrassed and it would be a little amusing were it not so tragically alarming to Roman. "Yeah," he replies, trying to keep his cool.

     "Probably should," Dean replies after another long moment. He still hasn't looked back up at Roman again, eyes still focused on his cube, like he's ready to go back any second now. Roman really _can't_ have that, so he squeezes the shoulder under him lightly, and speaks again.

     "Want anything specific?"

     Dean licks his lips again, and shrugs. Roman sighs, just a little bit through his nose. At least he's engaging, gotta keep him engaged.

     "There's still some French toast leftovers," Roman prods, still not taking his hand away from Dean's shoulder. He squeezes it lightly again. "That sound good?"

     Dean doesn't answer, but he doesn't really have to, since his stomach, at that moment, answers for him. It's like his brain has finally processed how long he's been sitting with his cube, and it's now connected with his body again, and sending signals that it needs help. Normally, Dean would probably chuckle at the timing, but instead, he glances up at Roman from underneath the fringe of his bangs, the blue of his irises barely visible from behind the strands. "Guess so," he replies flatly, and Roman nods.

     He should probably take his hand away and go reheat the French toast, but he doesn't really wanna take his hand away yet, afraid that if he takes even one step away, that if he leaves Dean alone, he's going to go right back into his head. He takes a breath. "Come to the kitchen?" He asks.

     Dean looks away again. He runs his top teeth over the hanging skin of his bottom lip for a second, gripping onto a piece and peeling it off, and Roman has to suppress the urge to reach and pull the man's lip away, lest he start to make it bleed again. But he doesn't, just stands there with his hand on Dean's shoulder, just waiting to see how the other man will respond.

     "Kay," he responds quietly, and stands for the first time in God knows how many hours. He makes a little noise as he does, and only when he's standing relatively straight does Roman take his hand away. It doesn't escape the big Samoan's notice that the little cube is still clutched in one of Dean's fists, but baby steps, gotta think in baby steps.

     With slow steps, they make their way to the kitchen, and Dean plops down in one of the chairs, and Roman is thankful it's the one where he can fully see Dean as he prepares the man food. If he didn't know any better, it's almost like Dean's recognized that Roman is trying to help. Roman quickly busies himself with preparing the leftover French toast, removing it from the tupperware onto a plate and sticking it in the microwave. He grabs Dean three pieces, hoping that it'll be enough and maybe Dean will want that and more once he's started eating.

     As the microwave runs, he turns his back to it, leaning on the counter and watching Dean. He spies the little cube not in Dean's hands, but resting on the table in front of his laced together hands. Good signs, more good signs.

     “Want butter and stuff?” Roman asks carefully, fully aware of how much Dean likes all the fixin’s on them.

     “Sure,” Dean replies, offering a cursory glance his way.

     Roman fetches them and the plate out of the microwave, carefully placing them as well as a fork and knife down in front of the tawny haired man. “Here you go.” Roman sits across from him, only because he knows that if he stands any longer, he’s going to start fussing over _something_ , and that’s not what Dean needs right now.

     It takes a moment, but Dean’s eyes refocus, and he looks down at the food just as his stomach growls again. “Thanks,” he says, carefully reaching for the silverware and taking it into his hands, looking for all intents and purposes as though he’s just reconnected with his body and he’s not quite sure how it works just yet.

     Roman watches without trying to look like he’s watching, making sure Dean actually starts to eat. It’s slow going, but eventually, once the first piece of French toast goes into Dean’s mouth, he feels himself relax.

     As much as he would like to make sure Dean eats everything on his plate, Roman realizes he can’t watch him either, so he stands suddenly, and stalks over to the coffee pot, busying himself with making a fresh pot. He’s probably going to need it.

     Roman tries not to strain his ears as he’s turned away but it’s difficult, listening for the quiet sounds of Dean’s silverware scraping over the plate as he eats. His movements are methodical, almost second nature at this point as he continues to make coffee, trying to make as little noise as possible and emit as non-intrusive an aura as he can. Is that something you can even change with enough persistence? Well, it’s better to try than not, right?

     It doesn’t take long for his coffee to finish, and after he’s got it poured and just the right amount of vanilla creamer in it, he turns back to Dean, stirring his drink diligently. Dean’s still eating—thank God—albeit slowly, and Roman finds himself talking before he thinks about it.

     "Wanna go for a walk?" he says, and Dean actually turns, and throws an arched eyebrow his way. Roman smiles softly at it. Good, that’s more like Dean. “After you’re done?”

     "Do _you_ want to?" Dean asks, before glancing pointedly out the window at the no doubt frigid, snowy weather.

     Roman shrugs, and shifts his eyes away from Dean. "Could use the fresh air," he replies, and it's only partially a lie really. Hopefully the suggestion is enough for Dean to go. He usually seems pretty content with tagging along on errands or whatever with Roman, so hopefully that'll hold true with this. Getting up and walking around someplace that isn't their apartment would hopefully do wonders for the man.

     Dean doesn't answer for a long moment, and then Roman hears the silverware clink on the plate, and it makes him look back. Dean wipes at the corners of his mouth with his thumb, then licks at his lips again. "Suppose a walk would be ok," he replies, his tone still soft and almost sleepy, like Dean isn't fully there even still.

     A thought hits Roman, and he really hates to ask, but the fact that Dean has apparently been here all night makes him ask. "Did you—" he swallows and starts again. "Do you need your pills?"

     Dean makes a face and nods. "Yeah."

     He moves as if he's going to stand, but since Roman is already standing, he quickly says, "I can get them," and Dean glances up at him, before settling back down with a slightly cloudy expression.

     "Nightstand," is all he says, and Roman immediately turns to head out of the kitchen, trying not to look like he's moving faster than he needs to even though that's exactly what he's doing. Something in his gut is still telling him not to let Dean out of his sight for too long, that he still might wind up right back where he was, blank and fiddling with his cube in that pattern that Roman has all but memorized by now. He can still practically hear it if he thinks hard enough.

     Click, click, click. Silence.

     He walks a little bit faster towards Dean's room.

     Opening the door slowly as to not potentially wake Seth—he's actually almost one hundred percent certain that the half blonde is awake since it's after nine already and the man is usually up at dawn, but better to be safe than sorry—he steps into Dean's room, and if he were honest with himself, it's actually not as messy as he was initially expecting. Sure, it's not as clean as his own, but it doesn't look like a tornado went through it.

     Spying the nightstand, Roman steps for it, and sees the two familiar little orange bottles, both about half full of pills. It’s not hard to notice the fact that both of them are turned right-side up, a clear indicator that Dean definitely hasn’t taken them since yesterday. Roman methodically retrieves a pill from each, carefully placing the bottle upside down just in case Dean doesn’t remember later. It’s not like he expects Dean to forget, but being cautious never hurts.

     He could take the opportunity to look around Dean’s room a little more, but doesn’t, focused instead on the self imposed mission. Besides, it wouldn’t feel right.

     Upon getting back to the kitchen, Roman sees that Dean isn’t eating anymore, and he can’t hide the slightly disappointed frown at seeing a little more than half of the food still there. Dean himself has his cube in hand again, but isn’t clicking it. Instead, he’s got it pinched between his thumb and middle finger and is spinning is around, staring at it idly. Gritting his teeth, the big man approaches, and offers his cupped hand.

     Dean’s attention returns, and he reaches up to allow Roman to place the pills in his hand, while he sets the cube back down on the table with the other. “Thanks,” he says, and without fanfare or even a drink of water first, he tosses the pills into his mouth, tilting his head back as he swallows several times around them.

     “Water?” Roman asks quickly, but Dean shakes his head, finally swallowing them down apparently.

     “Spits fine,” he replies. “They’re small enough.”

     Roman makes a face, remembering distinctly in the directions that the pills should be taken with water, but he bites his tongue. This isn’t the hill he should battle on. That’s going to come later, when they have their talk. “You done?” He asks, gesturing to Dean’s plate, and wishes that his voice doesn’t sound as tight as it does.

     Dean looks up at him. “Yeah,” he replies, pushing himself back from the table and rising from his chair. “Lemme change.”

     Roman watches him leave the kitchen and head down the hall, and he sighs, turning back to his coffee.

 

     Usually, whenever the three Shield members go anywhere, it's with purpose, with no real time to dilly dally. Even if the three of them _aren't_ even in a hurry, each of them have long strides—being over six feet tall and all—and they get where they need to go with relative speed. Now though, as Dean and Roman walk, it could almost be called lethargic. With Dean's strange mood and the gently sprinkling of snow fluttering through the sky, to Roman, it almost feels like a crime to go any faster than they are, regardless of the cold and how much he doesn't like it.

     They need to talk, that much Roman is certain of. Dean seems a little more human than he had earlier, but he's still very quiet, something that doesn't sit well with the elder man at all. He's gotten used to Dean filling the silence with little anecdotes or questions or just something that pops into his head without provocation. He does enough talking for the both of them most of the time, and now that he's not, it feels like Roman needs to step up. He's not quite sure how though. They need to discuss what happened yesterday, but it's a gamble. Talking about it could just send Dean into a deeper hole, or it could bring out all the thoughts he's probably been ruminating about this entire time.

     Roman sighs, and snuggles deeper into his scarf as they walk. He glances over at Dean. He's got his own beanie on and his leather jacket zipped all the way up to his chin, but other than that, he doesn't look all that different than normal. Out in the natural light, the bags under his eyes look even worse, almost like he's actually bruised, and Roman twitches when he notices it. Maybe he should have urged Dean to go to bed instead of spending more of his already depleted energy on something as trivial as a walk.

     Surprisingly, Dean is the one to break the silence. "Thanks, man," he says, looking down at the salt covered sidewalks as they tread across them.

     Roman hazards the question that's been on his mind. "Feeling any better?"

     Dean clears his throat and doesn't look at Roman. "Yeah. Feel a little bit more human." He replies. "You didn't have to do that."

     Roman shrugs himself, even though Dean doesn't see it. "Sometimes people need help," he replies before he can even think about it.

     The answer causes a wry chuckle to tumble out of Dean. "Yeah—" he sniffs. "Not really used to um—having somethin' like that."

     "Like what?"

     Dean shrugs now, still resolutely looking at the ground. "Help," he says, without any further explanation.

     Roman nods. "It can be strange, to get used to," he agrees.

     "Thanks though," Dean replies.

     They fall into another silence—this one more companionable than the previous—but Roman knows that he's going to have to probably ruin it now. He can't rely on Dean to initiate all the talking, so after about five or so minutes of quiet walking, he speaks up. "You know we're going to have to talk about what happened yesterday," he says, being blunt and up front, hoping that Dean appreciates him not dancing around it.

     Dean sighs, and continues to walk, not fazed at all, almost as if he were expecting the question. "Yeah, I figured," he replies, confirming it.

     Roman takes a deep breath. "I'm going to assume what happened yesterday was what caused.....this morning?" He asks, choosing his words carefully.

     Dean swallows. "Yeah."

     "Do you wanna talk about it?"

     Dean makes a face, one of the corners of his mouth tucking down a little, and he sighs through his nose. "Not really," he admits.

     "We don't have to—" Roman starts to say, but Dean sighs again and interrupts him.

     "I should though. 'Cause—" he clears his throat. "What I was doing....wasn't good."

     "Playing with your cube?" Roman asks.

     Dean shrugs. "Stimulation," he corrects quickly, almost offhandedly. "But no, not that. The...going away part."

     Roman makes a face. "Going away?" God he hates to sound like an ignorant ass, but he really honestly doesn't know too much about what Dean's talking about.

     "Yeah," Dean nods, kicking one of his legs out to crush a little pile of snow in his way. "Doctor—Doctor calls it 'disassociation’...but 'going away' makes more sense to me."

     "Ok. What does, 'going away', mean to you?" Roman asks, because really, at this point, all he can do is prompt Dean into explaining further, and trying to be as open as he can about listening.

     "Kinda like an out of body experience. It's like you're in your body, and then it's almost like you're looking out at yourself from the inside, or looking at yourself from another person's perspective, and you can't really control what you're doing. It's like you're trapped inside or even outside of yourself...your body." Dean replies, "Or sometimes, you just kind of stop.....doing. Everything goes blank and you just....."

     "Go away," Roman nods.

     Dean nods back, adjusting his beanie lower over his forehead. "Yeah, Doc said it's different for different people and can manifest in different ways. But like, sometimes you lose a lot of time in between and—" he shrugs, "It can be really hard to get out of."

     "Do you fade in and out?" He asks, remembering how at some points when he would look at Dean earlier there would be some sort of clarity in his eyes.

     It takes them passing another two people before Dean seems comfortable enough to answer. "Yeah, sometimes. I was earlier. I would be out, and hardly aware of anything at all, and then I would fade back in and tell myself, 'ok Dean, you gotta get up now, because if you don't you're going to go away again.' But for some reason I wouldn't get up and sure enough I'd fade away again. I don't know exactly how many times it happened, but apparently I did it all fucking night."

     Roman winces a little. "Sorry I didn't do anything until now."

     Dean scoffs. "S'not like you know what the fuck is going on in my brain or why I do shit," he hunches a little as they stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn. "Hell, _I_ don't even know sometimes."

     "I'm glad you're feeling better though?" Roman phrases it like a question, because he's honestly not sure whether or not dragging Dean out here has actually helped him in any way. He's not sitting on the couch spacing out or 'disassociating' as Dean had called it, so that's better at least? God he still isn't sure.

     "Getting there," Dean replies. "Feeling a little more person shaped than before……thanks."

     “Anytime,” Roman replies on instinct, but he finds that once he says it, he means it.

     “Meds probably helped some too, to be honest,” Dean says, his voice just a touch more jovial than before. “Incredible how human you feel when you have the right chemicals in your brain. Even if they are store bought.”

     Roman cracks a small smile. It’s good to have Dean joking again, even if it is just a little bit. It’s unfortunate that he has to bring the mood down again. “So you ‘went away’ because you felt bad or—?” He starts to ask, but trails off, because he honestly doesn’t know why Dean would drift off like that for any other reason than he felt bad and was actually taking Roman’s advice to heart? Was he really thinking about apologizing to Seth and meaning it, truly sorry for the mistake he made?

     Dean doesn’t answer for long moments, but Roman doesn’t rush him, hoping that the younger man will answer on his own time. Thankfully, it's somehow easier, to talk like this. Letting their feet take them wherever they go, not overly concerned with maintaining eye contact or the formal setting of 'we're sitting down and talking about something serious'. It _is_ serious, but it doesn't feel like a lecture, more like....two people really talking about something important.

     Dean licks over his teeth. "I was _so_ sure that he knew..." he says shaking his head. "Everything in my being told me that he knew, and that he was letting Triple H fuck with us."

     "Why were you so sure?" Roman asks gently.

     A shrug. "Instincts man."

     Roman nods. That makes sense. Dean is such an instinct and impulse driven man, that it makes perfect sense that he reacted the way that he did. However. "That doesn't make it alright," Roman replies, stepping carefully over a slick patch in the sidewalk just as Dean swerves a bit to allow a someone walking their dog to pass by.

     "I know," Dean replies tightly after they pass. "It's not an excuse."

     "You trust your instincts more than anything," Roman says, glancing up at the sky. The snowfall has almost come to a stand still, just a few fat flakes sprinkling around them, their breaths puffing the air as they continue. "I know that's just the way that you are—"

     "But I _can't_ be that way," Dean interrupts a little sharply, and Roman makes note of the harshness of the words. It’s obviously a soft spot for Dean. "You're not the first person to say that. And you sure as hell probably ain't gonna be the last."

     Roman frowns at that. "Don't put words in my mouth."

     Dean's head whips to the side to actually look at Roman now. "What were you gonna say then, _huh_?" he snaps, his mouth pulled up in a sneer. It's the most emotion he's shown all day, and Roman frowns at it.

     He stops walking entirely then, his brows pulled low over his silver eyes. "That you can follow your instincts all you want, but you need to be prepared for the repercussions if and or when they end up being wrong. Like yesterday." He replies poignantly, then starts to walk again, passing up Dean, who's stopped in his own tracks.

     "That's what fucked me up so bad!" He shouts back, and Roman stops again, slips his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, then turns around.

     "The repercussions of being wrong?" He asks, his tone taking on the coldness of the weather. He never thought Dean to be as narcissistic as to believe that everything he does it right, but this entire situation with him attacking Seth honestly gives him second thoughts. Does Dean _actually_ believe that there are no consequences for him being wrong, even though he acted upon instinct?

     Dean's hands emerge from his pockets so he can run them over his face with a groan, rubbing as he apparently tries to fight to find the right words to explain. "No, just—" he tries, then sighs, removing his hands from his face. "My intuition being....wrong."

     Roman's furrowed brows take on a more confused angle. "Surely your instincts have been wrong before."

     Dean shakes his head and exhales heavily. "Not like that." He starts moving again, stomping on like the movement will help him articulate his thoughts. Roman has to start walking after him so he can hear what the younger man has to say for himself. "I just...I was so fucking _sure_ ," he tries to explain. "I've never—like—been _that_ sure and then be proven that wrong."

     "Do I have to say that there's a first time for everything?" Roman asks, feeling a little bit of his ire cool down, just slightly.

     Dean stuffs his hands back in his pockets and shrugs. "Kinda turned my world upside down. Made me question things. Still does, to be honest."

     “That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Roman points out, catching up with Dean despite the man’s longer strides. He stares at the man’s profile for a long moment. “Taking stock of yourself, questioning things. Everyone should go through that once in a while.”

     “I hate being a part of ‘Everyone’,” Dean grumbles, shrinking into his jacket as much as he can. Roman’s mouth quirks up.

     “Something I’m sure ‘Everyone’ feels once in a while too.”

     Dean glances over at him, and despite the bags underneath his eyes, he looks the most ‘Dean’ he’s looked since last night. Roman sighs a little bit through his nose in relief. Good, that’s good. “Wanna head back?” Dean asks suddenly. “I’m tired and some asshole dragged me outside while it's fucking freezing just to have a ‘talk’.”

     Roman raises a brow. “Some asshole needed to talk.”

     “Yeah, yeah,” Dean replies, noncommittally, and rounds the corner to head back to the apartment.

 

     They don’t talk much on the way back, each content with their own thoughts, mulling over what they talked about. Roman makes a note to himself to look up, ‘Disassociation,’ so he can have maybe a better idea of how to handle it just in case it happens again. Coming from Dean and the fact that he’s apparently gone to a doctor about it, means it’s something that could have a potential to happen with some regularity.

     They make it back to the apartment complex without much fanfare. “Mind if I check the mail?” Roman asks, “Haven’t done it since yesterday.”

     Dean shrugs. “Free country, man.”

     Roman huffs a laugh through his mouth and opens their mailbox with his key, wondering idly if Dean’s _ever_ checked the mail since they moved in. They normally don’t get much since most of their bills are handled by the company, but they’re starting to get the odd coupon and junk mail that amazingly turns up no matter where you live. However, when Roman opens the door, two rather thick white envelopes greet him. He fishes them out and absentmindedly closes the mailbox door behind him.

     Scrawled on each of the envelopes is not their address, but two letters. One with ‘RR,’ and one with, ‘SR.’

     Dean leans over to investigate. “The hell?” He asks.

     Roman traces his fingertips over the ‘RR’. “Roman Reigns,” he mutters underneath his breath.

     “And Seth Rollins,” Dean says, unamused, indicating the other letter. “None for me?”

     Roman shakes his head. “What could—” He shoves Seth’s letter underneath his armpit so he can remove his gloves and carefully rip open the envelope. Dean watches on with thinly veiled interest as Roman pulls out the contents from inside. He blinks. “It’s a plane ticket.”

     Dean blinks back at him. “What?”

     Roman looks up. “To Florida.”

     Dean doesn’t look like he’s understood anything more with that information. “What?” He emphasizes.

     It dawns on Roman. “For Christmas…” he replies. “Vacation.”

     “How in the hell—?” Dean starts to ask, and reaches to take the envelope out of Roman’s hand to see for himself. He pulls out the other contents besides the ticket, and scans over the papers, rifling through them. “Triple H,” he grumbles darkly, underneath his breath, shoving the envelope back into Roman’s hands. “Should’ve known.”

     Roman blinks. “Why didn’t _you_ get one?” He asks, stupidly.

     A wry smirk accompanies Dean’s pulled together brows. “Ain’t got nobody to go home to,” he replies, before turning away and striding quickly back towards the apartment.

     Roman swears underneath his breath and follows him.

 

***

     Seth sighs, prodding at his the bridge of his nose and the dark swelling starting to bloom across it and towards his eyes. He knew he was being optimistic about not getting a black eye because of Ambrose's stupid punch, but he was really hoping that he wasn't going to go home for Christmas with an  _injury_. Even though he's told his parents that he works a security job, even something like this is going to raise questions. Hopefully he can just pass it off as someone getting a little too aggressive at one of his jobs and he had to take matters into his own hands and he may have gotten punched for it. The "You should see the other guy" joke could probably work with his Step Dad, but he can already see his Mom getting that tight lipped look on her face where she's displeased with something but doesn't want to talk about it around a lot of other people. He knows he's going to get a small lecture from her at once point during his vacation, and he once again curses Ambrose underneath his breath for being the asshole that he is.

     While he's currently in a state of not giving an absolute single fuck about what Ambrose has been doing since yesterday, he had been stuck in his room all day because apparently the tawny haired man had decided to camp out in the living room and not move all day. Seth had gone out to the kitchen to make breakfast right before dawn—he had woken up with a headache, another side effect from Ambrose's punches—and nearly had jumped out of his skin when he saw said man sitting in the love seat with only one lamp illuminating him, clicking that little cube and staring at the wall like he was on a completely different planet. Seth had said, "Jesus Ambrose, don't _do_ that!" But the other man hadn't even seemed like he heard Seth.

     At first it had pissed Seth off to no end that Ambrose would pretend not to hear him due to some misguided idea that he wasn't in the wrong about yesterday, but after Seth had tried to throw a scathing comment Ambrose's way, he realized it wasn't that Ambrose was intentionally ignoring him, it was legitimately like he wasn't even aware of his surroundings. He tried to get Ambrose's attention once more, but when there was no answer, Seth just scoffed with a sigh and turned on his heel back to his room, shaking his head. It was too damn early in the morning to fucking deal with his shit, especially when Ambrose was already on his fucking shit list.

     That had been like four actual hours ago. Seth had thankfully fallen back asleep for another hour or so, but when he poked his head out of his room later on, he still heard the clicking, and immediately shut the door again. Not dealing with that shit.

     Finally, a little after nine, Reigns seemed to have dragged Ambrose out of his comatose state and left with him, which blessedly left the apartment to Seth. Finally, he was allowed the rest of the apartment. He had finally made a late breakfast—a smoothie since he wasn't really that hungry even though he hadn't eaten since the night before—used the bathroom, and that's where he is now, poking and prodding at his bruised up face, cursing Ambrose several times over. "Asshole" he says one more time before pushing himself away from the counter and the mirror, contemplating a shower even though he had taken one last night.

     His head is starting to throb again—he would be lucky Ambrose didn't knock something loose in there—and he's sore all over, so another shower wouldn't necessarily be bad, but he doesn't know when Ambrose and Reigns are going to be back, and he would rather avoid the former at all costs right now, unsure whether he'd be able to keep his cool around the taller man and vice versa. Who knows how Ambrose is going to act now that he's apparently out of his zombie-like state.

     Before he gets a chance to decide for sure whether or not he’s going to take that shower, he hears the door unlock and open, with two sets of footfalls stomping into the apartment after it. Seth lets out a large sigh. Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

     He’s fully intending to ignore them in favor of taking a shower to avoid the inevitable confrontation between him and Ambrose, but Reigns of course has to call for him.

     “Seth?”

     He sighs again. _Damn it_. Taking a deep breath, he turns, opens the bathroom door, and steps out.

     Both Reigns and Ambrose are still partially in their outdoor clothes, Reigns stripping off his scarf and hanging it on the hooks near the door. Ambrose is removing his hat and jacket behind him, and just looking at him still makes Seth’s blood boil a little bit, so he focuses on Reigns instead. He steps into the living room, but not too much, shoving his hands into his sweatpants pockets. “Yeah?” Reigns doesn’t answer for a second, looking at Seth and no doubt the black eye that’s forming, and Seth grits his teeth. “What is it?”

     That snaps Reigns out of it and he looks down. “You got something in the mail,” he replies, offering a thick white envelope.

     Seth steps to him, his eyebrows pulled together. Mail? From who? He doesn’t bother asking and takes the envelope—noticing the ‘SR’ on the front—and tears it open. His brows shoot up a little bit as he sees what’s inside. “Oh,” he says, looking up. “My plane ticket.”

     Ambrose’s head snaps to him. “You knew about that?”

     Seth’s face scrunches up in anger at the accusation _so_ fucking similar to the one the day before. Ambrose doesn’t feel fucking sorry for _any_ of it, does he? Seth practically snarls as he spits out. “ _Yes, I did,_ ” and turns on his heel towards his room without another word.

 

     Roman watches with a slight cringe of his own as Dean make a face at Seth, who stalks quickly into his room, shutting his bedroom door soundly behind him without another word. Roman glances down at his plane ticket. Maybe a couple of days away from one another will actually be a good thing.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I'm going to RAW for the first time on October 1st and I got an amazing seat (front row in the section behind the floor seats!!) and I am legitimately so fucking excited since it's the go home show before the Super Showdown in Australia and let me tell you there are so many things that could happen and if I think about it too much my heart starts beating super fast like a complete idiot. I know me, and I am fully prepared to get emotional at this show. I hope you all have a good weekend and if you watch RAW on Monday and see someone with either a Finn Balor poster that says, "Balor Club Pride" with rainbow colors on it or a poster with a Celtic Shield Cerberus that's me!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little bit different from the chapters before it since it's the first time the boys have been well and truly separated since the beginning of the story, and I wanted to sort of capture different snapshots of their different points of view. The next chapter or so will probably be written in the same way until they're reunited so I hope it's successful! lol 
> 
> Again, any mistakes are my own doing and if anything's weird let me know!

***

      "So we'll be flying in the night of the 26th," Roman says to Dean as he's throwing his coat on. He glances at the other man, who's leaning against the back of the armchair, watching him quietly. Seth's already headed downstairs to the escort vehicle, hauling his things away without really a word to Dean at all. Roman hadn't even resisted sighing heavily at the tenseness between them, wishing that they hadn't regressed so much but understanding why and really being unable to argue about it.

      "Sounds good," Dean replies quietly, pushing off the armchair and following Roman to the door as the Samoan opens it.

      Roman hesitates for a moment, but decides to go through with it, clapping Dean on the side of the shoulder. The other man twitches just slightly, but Roman pushes through it to say, "Have a good one."

      Dean moves to lean against the door jamb, and Roman lets his hand fall away. The younger man's arms cross over his chest and he nods once. "I'll man the fort, keep it safe," he says, as if there's any real threat to their home.

      Roman's mouth quirks a little bit. "You know I would've invited you back with me if I had known any of this was happening," he says, his tone dropping low. "My family wouldn't have minded."

      "Don't worry about it man," Dean shrugs, like it's nothing. Roman's mouth falls, and with Dean glancing away, he can't really tell whether the man actually means what he's saying. "This whole Christmas deal," he continues, gesturing with one hand and a slight sneer on his face, "Ain't really my thing."

      Roman nods, a little smirk dimpling his cheek again. "True. Can't really imagine you at a Catholic Mass, which would _definitely_ happen."

      Dean snorts and frowns, shaking his head. "Yeah no, Big Man, gonna have to take a hard pass on that one."

      "C'mon Reigns! We're gonna be late!" Seth's voice blares from the ground floor, and Roman twitches at the surname. Then sighs, hoisting his bag a little more securely on his shoulder.

      "Gotta go," he says, even though he doesn't need to.

      Dean nods back, then hesitates, his jaw working slightly. "Have a good time, yeah?" He asks, uncertain.

      Roman nods, "You too."

      "Oh yeah," Dean smiles, leaning more lazily on the door. "Take as long of showers I want, eat what I want, masturbate anywhere I want, it'll be great."

      Roman makes a face that's more disgusted than he actually feels, playing with the joke. "Just clean up when you're done."

      "Of course," Dean replies easily. "I'm not an animal."

      "Still gross," Roman emphasizes, reaching for the handle on his suitcase and starting down the staircase, lest Seth yell at him again. "I'll let you know when we get there and when I land, OK?" He says, glancing over his shoulder.

      Dean blinks at that, opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He closes it, swallows, then tries again. "Yeah, ok." He waves lightly, "Have a good time," he repeats, as if he's saying it just for something to say.

      "You too," Roman repeats back, and descends down the rest of the stairs. It doesn't escape his notice that he doesn't hear the front door close until he's all the way down the stairs. A smile graces his lips at the thought.

      It sort of falls when he sees Seth, standing at the trunk of the escort SUV, his own arms crossed, waiting for Roman. "Got everything?" He asks quickly, like it'll hurry Roman along. The big Samoan almost goes slower a little just out of spite, but they really are running it close, so he simply hoists his suitcase into the back and slides it along Rollins' stuff.

      "Yeah," He says, then frowns. Does Seth really need two whole suitcases for three days? He glances at his teammate out of the corner of his eyes, and winces a bit at the obvious bruising over Seth's nose and right eye. He decides not to comment and instead reaches up to shut the trunk door.

      "Let's go then," Seth replies, ambling into the back passenger seat while Roman gets in behind the driver.

      They easily zoom off, and Roman settles into the seat with a sigh. It's at least a forty five minute drive to the airport, and then going through security and everything, then a three hour nonstop flight to the Pensacola Airport—how Triple H had gotten one of those at such short notice he has no idea—then an uber to his parent's house. He should be there by tonight. A small huff of a laugh leaves him. Some Christmas Present.

      "You excited to see your family?" Seth asks idly, and Roman figures since they have the time, they can talk.

      So Roman nods. "It'll be good to see them," he smiles. "My Mom'll probably cry."

      Seth raises a skeptical brow. "She'd be that excited?"

      Roman's smile widens. "They don't know I'm coming."

      Blinking, Seth replies. "Hell of a Christmas present."

      Roman nods. "For all of us," he agrees. "It'll be nice to see them again." He shakes his head. "Still can't believe Triple H did all this."

      Seth makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Now he's got _you_ doing it," he mumbles.

      Roman raises a brow now. "Doing what?"

      "Calling Mr. Helmsley 'Triple H'."

      " _You_ call him Hunter to his face," Roan points out, and Seth's cheeks flush a bit as he gets flustered. Roman smiles a little at the sight.

      "Because he practically demands that I do!" Seth replies tightly, then looks out the window, probably so he doesn't have to face Roman and his embarrassment. "Anyway, I'm glad to be going home too."

      "Your family do anything big for Christmas?" Roman asks, noticing how Seth had called going back, 'home'. To be fair, don't most adults do for a while, even after leaving home? Did Seth live with his parents all the way until he got into NXT? He doesn't think he'd be surprised to learn if it was one or the other.

      "Not anything too official or extravagant," Seth replies with a shrug. "We don't have like a big family gathering or anything. Don't have a lot of aunts or uncles or cousins, and those that I do have live on the other side of the country."

      Roman nods, understanding. Most of his family is either in Florida or Samoa, but everyone at least tries to get together at Christmas. "That sounds nice."

      Seth turns to him. "What about you?"

      Roman smirks. "Every member of my family who can come usually does. It usually happens at my parent's house since it's the biggest."

      "How many is 'every' family member?" Seth asks, and Roman actually huffs a laugh.

      He starts to count on his fingers. "Mom, Dad, brother, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, first cousins, first cousins once removed, second cousins, et cetera. You name it, I probably have one."

      Seth eyes widen. "That's....a lot of people."

      Roman nods. "Tell me about it, my siblings and I usually had to help my parents with all the preparations."

      "At least you get to skip that part?" Seth offers.

      "Something that my Mom will probably scold me for after she's done crying," Roman replies, only half kidding. His mom probably will after all.

      "At least you get to leave the cold," Seth jokes. "I'm just headed for more snow."

      Roman concedes with a nod. "I'll give you that," he replies, "I'm definitely not going to miss _this_ —" he gestures to the snow falling lightly outside the SUV, "—in the least."

      "What’s the temperature gonna be in Florida? Do you know?" Seth asks, and Roman can't help but chuckle lightly.

      "Sixty Two," he replies.

      Seth's face falls flat. "I hate you,” he states, like a fact. “It's _literally_ going to be thirty degrees warmer where you're going."

      Roman shrugs. "White Christmas?"

      Seth rolls his eyes. "Fuck White Christmas."

      "'S really humid though," Roman comments idly, "Being sub-tropical and all."

      Seth crosses his arms over his chest and looks out the window. "Oh cry me a river," he replies sarcastically.

 

      The rest of the ride to the airport is rather uneventful, Seth taking out his phone and fiddling with it as they ride, something Roman rather envies. It's not that he gets super motion sick and could vomit in the car, it's just the motion of the car and looking down at something at the same time gives him terrible headaches that can almost border on migraines. It always makes long car rides where he's not driving fun for him, since basically the only things he can do if he wants to avoid any pain is stare out the window or sleep.

      He exhales lightly, leaning his head against the cold of the window, the contrast to the warmth of the inside of the car rather nice all things considered. The big man watches the snow careen past them as they move down the freeway, taking in the covered trees, and thinking about the fact that in six hours, he's going to be back to his parents house where he won't be stuffed in several jackets just to keep warm. Roman's eyes close, and the breathes, allowing himself to feel the movement of the car around and underneath him, the sound of the car's wheels along the stretch of road unsuspectingly lulling him into sleep.

 

      The airport is quite a bit smaller than either agent had anticipated, and as each of them walk up to the check in counter, it dawns on them that there is a distinct possibility that this is actually quite a private airport.

      "Oh yes, Mr. Reigns and Rollins," the receptionist says with a smile. "We've been expecting you. Allow me to escort you to your planes."

      Both Agents exchange looks with one another as the receptionist guides them down towards what each of them presumes are their gates. There is a suspicious lack of TSA or much Security of any kind, which tips the Shield members to the fact that they _are_ in fact in a private airport.

      Finally, they end their trip in front of two gates. The receptionist stands between them and smiles, gesturing to her sides. "Mr. Rollins, your plane is here," she gestures to her right. "And Mr. Reigns, yours will be this way. You may board as soon as you are ready, and thank you for flying with us today."

      Seth glances around. "Are there....other passengers? Have they boarded already?" He asks, a little worried.

      She laughs. "No sir, both of you are the only passengers on your planes."

      Roman shoots Seth a look, and vice versa. "Private planes," Roman mumbles in disbelief, and Seth nods.

      "Private planes," he agrees, and takes a deep breath as he straightens up a little.

      "Are you gentlemen ready?" The receptionist asks.

      Both Seth and Roman nod their affirmative and approach their gates, each with their own attendant. They offer their IDs and their tickets—really more of a formality than anything at this point—when asked, and are scanned easily through, passing through the gate and down a hallway towards the tarmac. Once there, there are only two planes. One to their right, and one to their left.

      "Have a good one," Seth says to Roman, who nods.

      "You too, fly safe," he replies. "I'll let you know when I get to Florida."

      Seth blinks at the other man, taken aback a bit. He swallows. "Yeah, ok....me too," he replies. "To Iowa," he tacks on, even though he doesn't need to.

      A moment or two of silence passes between them, before they both decide to head towards their planes. They aren't necessarily huge, but Agent's know that they're lucky to be flying back home like this at all.

 

      Stepping onto the plane is quite the experience. Roman has been on a good handful of plane rides in his life from the time he was little, but he's never been in a plane like this. He swallows as one of the two flight attendants as well as who he assumes is the actual pilot of the plane greet him, and he nods and greets them quietly as well as he's led more into the plane. It's obviously a private jet, if only for the fact that there's only about seven seats in the whole entire thing. He can't really call them seats either, more like someone put seven whole La-z-boy recliners with entire tables in front of them. There's even a couch on one side of the plane. He swallows again, feeling completely out of place in his jeans and his winter clothes.

      "Pleasure to have you Mr. Reigns," the second flight attendant says with a smile. "My name is Kelly. Please, allow me to take your suitcase," she says, and he silently sort of pushes it near her before sitting in the nearest seat. He kind of marvels for a moment how comfortable it is, before noticing that there isn't even a seatbelt, or if there is, he can't really see it.

      He slowly takes off his jacket because it's actually a little warm in the plane, and he's sort of at a loss of where to put it, when Kelly returns to him, and offers a hand. "I can take your coat if you'd like Mr. Reigns," she says easily.

      Roman swallows and offers it to her. "Thank you," he replies softly.

      "Absolutely," she replies with a smile. He doesn't really know what to say to that, and she much catch on with his awkwardness, since she asks, "First time flying private?" Her voice, taking on a little bit less than the professionally cheery edge she had moments ago.

      Roman manages to drum up a dry chuckle. "That obvious?" He asks.

      She nods. "It's alright, Mr. Reigns. Myself and Janelle—" She gestures to the other flight attendant at the head of the plane who waves slightly, "—will be here to help you with whatever you need. We'll make sure your flight is as pleasant as possible."

      "With these seats," Roman comments. "That won't be hard."

      Both Kelly and Janelle laugh. "I'm not surprised," Janelle says. "Big man like you, I can't imagine regular flights are all that comfortable."

      Roman swallows roughly at the memories and nods, his hands clenching and unclenching. "Not entirely," he says, a little stiffly, while still trying to be polite.

      "Well Mr. Reigns, let me hang your coat up and Janelle will begin with the pre-flight preparations," Kelly says, and walks away further down the plane where she no doubt also put his suitcase.

      Even though he’s probably heard enough safety demonstrations from flight attendants in his life, he’s in a private plane, and isn’t sure whether or not the procedures are different. They aren’t really—he actually _does_ have a seat belt—but Roman still pays rapt attention, committing it to memory as much as possible.

      The takeoff starts faster than he anticipated, and he fastens his seat belt, triple checking that it’s secure. His brain sort of fizzles in and out as the pilot comes over the loudspeakers and talks about the flight, his heart starting to pick up in his chest. The big man tries to breathe through it, using exercises meant to keep his heart rate under control in high tension situations. WWE probably never thought that their covert training would be used to help with flight anxiety. Once they’re actually off the ground, Roman’s heart starts to calm, even though he adamantly doesn’t look out the window to see the Earth below them get tinier and tinier as they climb in altitude. He sighs and closes his eyes, leaning back against the comfortable headrest and thanking God for the smoothness of the take off despite the weather.

      “Would you like something to drink Mr. Reigns?” Janelle asks gently, and Roman rolls his head to the side and peeks his eyes open.

      “Is alcohol out of the question?” He asks.

      It makes both of the flight attendants laugh.

 

***

      The immediate relief once Rollins and Roman are gone is rather short lived all things considered. He hasn't really been alone...like _alone_ alone since before NXT. Dean frowns as he drapes himself across the love seat. Strange how habits form so quickly and easily without your notice. While Roman may not be as loud as Rollins, the big man's mere presence alone fills up a room sometimes, even if Roman is doing something so simple as reading a book or preparing coffee in the morning. With NXT, basically every waking moment was spent with other trainees, sleeping, eating, practically _breathing_ together, as a unit, as one.

      Dean's frown deepens. Never thought he would be considered good enough for a 'unit' until now either. For the longest time it was just him, maybe one person or another intermediate in between, but before NXT and WWE, he was just that one crazy guy. A lunatic on the fringe of society. His field name is apt.

      Not that he considers many of the NXT recruits as his friends. Co-workers, fellow agents-in-training, some rivals and some people he could get along with, but never really friends.

      He could probably classify Roman as a friend at this point, or at least friend adjacent. He jives with Roman more than he does with Rollins.

      At the thought of Rollins, a small tightness forms right underneath his sternum, settling in his diaphragm and not letting him be.

_“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” Roman says._

_“I already—”_

_“A real one. And only if you mean it."_

      Does he mean it? Dean's eyes roll up to the ceiling, where his eyes flick about, absently assigning objects and shapes to the texture in the ceiling. He knows he fucked up, intrinsically, and he knows that his apology in the moment left something to be desired, but did he actually mean he was sorry?

      If anything, when he gets down to the nitty gritty, he was angry with Triple H. Angry at him for parading the Shield around like they were his lap dogs instead of highly trained covert operatives with their own free wills and sense of morals. Sure, he's their boss, but to Dean it felt as though the man crossed the line, showing his hand when it was completely unnecessary to do so.

      Dean reaches up to absently tap his thumb against his collarbone. His lips press flat. Looking at it from the outside, his rationale that Rollins has somehow known about the fact that Triple H was going to do what he did would be classified as a reach on a good day, but he was so sure, _so fucking sure_ that it had blinded him. Rollins had spent more time with Triple H than he and Roman combined, and with the way that he basically kisses the ground the elder man walks on, it was easy to make his association, no matter how misguided it really was.

      His temper isn't the greatest, he knows, and it hits him, that he probably punched Rollins straight in the face because he couldn't do that to Triple H. That thought makes his lips all the tighter as he taps his collarbone a little faster, a little harder. He hadn't even tried asking Rollins whether or not he knew that Triple H was going to do what he did, he just assumed, and acted. Impulsive, that's always been his problem.

      Perhaps more judgmental than a guy like him should be in the first place too. It's not like he's without his own shortcomings, and it's not like he doesn't know about them. He can be hard to get along with, and as Ro's said many times before in their current short stint of living together, he and Rollins don't exactly try to get along with one another.

      Something about Rollins just.....scratches him the wrong way. The arrogance, the assuredness, the no-nonsense. His stupid laugh and the way that he acts like he knows better than everyone else.

      So he punched Rollins because he couldn't hit Triple H, and because of his preconceived notions of how he thought Rollins had acted. He judged Rollins without thinking, was wrong, and Rollins got a rather nasty shiner for his troubles-or lack thereof.

      Dean groans, scrubbing the palms of his hands over his face several times before running them through his curls. He shouldn't have done it, he knows that. But is he _actually_ sorry for it?

      He's sorry for the fact that his error has caused a rift between him and Rollins, and it feels like they're back to square one with basically only tolerating each other's existence because it was for the good of their careers. Dean groans louder. It's only been two months and he's already fucked up.

      Is that sorry enough for the real apology that Roman wants from him? "Hey, I'm sorry that I punched you because I was mad. I'm saying sorry because I know you're going to be a shit about this and in all fairness you have a right to be a shit because I _did_ punch you without provocation and without any real evidence, however you don't need to treat me like shit and make our team dynamic suffer. I mean you're kind of the planner and the brains so you should be able to recognize that you being an ass to me even though I didn't know you didn't know isn't the best for business and it's not like I actually broke your nose or anything, you've gotten worse injuries in NXT and—"

      No, an apology like that probably definitely isn't going to work.

      Dean flings his arms out to land wherever they may and groans his loudest yet. He lays there for a moment, letting it linger, before falling rather limp and staring at the ceiling with a miserable expression.

      “Ok,” he tells himself, suddenly flinging his body up from off the lone seat. “No more thinking. Let’s run the bad out.”

      He stands up a little too fast and has to forego taking more than one step since his vision blacks out for a second, sticking his arms out out of instinct to maintain his balance.

      “Gotta run it out,” he repeats as he trails into his room in search for proper running clothes.

 

      Running outside in this weather in just a sweatshirt and sweatpants is probably not beneficial to him in any way shape or form, and people on the street are looking at him rather weird, but at least the icy air stings his lungs enough that he forgets about Rollins and the stupid apology. It’s also rather challenging to make sure that he doesn’t actually wipe out and bust his fucking face open slipping on the ice strewn around the streets of the neighborhood. His brain falls into blissful silence as he focuses on the pain, letting it take over his senses and feeding it off it, pushing himself harder and faster, letting his muscles pound and his lungs burn as he breathes through the exertion. It becomes almost second nature as he skips over patches of ice and snow, his body reacting to it before his brain can even process it. His entire focus is zeroed in on his pathway, not paying much of the outside world any mind. After some time and also no time at all—with his attention diverted something else—he ends up back at the foot of the stairs leading up to their apartment, his hands on top of his head as he pants so hard he’s practically wheezing.

      He paces back and forth, feeling the burning and throbbing in his thighs and calves. At least he doesn’t have that strange feeling of running but not going anywhere like he does on the treadmill. He sniffs loudly, his nose running due to the warmth of his body but the cold of the outside, his breaths puffing visibly as he paces. As he does, his brain starts to come online again, and it practically screams at him that he should go back inside. He’s too overheated in the cold, and too dehydrated and too exhausted and—

      With another deep breath, Dean bolts up the stairs, conceding finally when he reaches the top when his brain pleads for him to just go inside.

      The shock of warmth from the inside almost makes him want to go back out again, but he doesn’t, stepping in, heading towards the kitchen to get a glass or two of water.

      After downing a glass of water from the tap—the filter water was too cold—he notices his phone—which had been left on top of the microwave—had a blue light blinking from it. Normally, he wasn’t one to care about phone notifications, but he reaches for it, unlocking the device with a swipe of his finger. A little ‘1’ above the letter icon makes him click on it, figuring it’s probably Roman letting him know that he’s safely back in Florida.

      Imagine his surprise, when it says:

_From: Renee Young_

_I hope your vacation is going well! If you’re still on for coffee, I’ll definitely be free on the 26th. Hope to hear from you soon! :)_

      Dean blinks at the message, still panting and sweaty with an empty glass of water in one hand and his phone in the other. Setting the water glass down, he stares at the screen, re-reading it over and over.

      Rollins’ taunting voice, _‘You have a date!’_ rings in his ears, and it makes him frown. After a moment though, a small smile slowly creeps up on his lips as he looks at the screen. He reaches down to type up his response.

_To: Renee Young_

_i’m free whenever you are_

 

 

***

      Seth takes a deep breath, for some reason his heart pounding in his chest. He knows intrinsically that it's because he hasn't physically seen his parents in over a year now, but with his training and what he actually does for a living, that the jitters from something like this would be all but nonexistent. Seth chuckles to himself. Goes to show that not even high covert operative training and life or death missions doesn't contend with the nervousness of seeing your family after a long period of time.

      What's he's exactly nervous about however, he isn't one hundred percent sure. The black eye isn't going to give him any points for sure, but perhaps it's the inherent fear of having to lie to his parents about who he is, what he does that's making his heart want to beat out of his chest. Everyone lies to their parents, right? Seth exhales. Not everyone has to lie to protect the safety of their family's lives, do they?

With one more inhale and exhale, he reaches up to knock on the door.

 

***

      Roman was right, his mother did playfully scold him about not being here to help set everything up, but that was after she had held him to her for a solid five minutes right there in on the front porch and cried. He feels a little bad about being right about that too, and he apologizes to her and holds her tightly to him as she lets her tears out. "You done making Mom cry?" A voice asks, and he looks up to see his brother Rosey standing behind them in the foyer, his arms crossed over his chest but a rather amused smile still on his face.

      His mom finally pulls him out of the hug, but keeps an arm across his back as she ushers him in. "Rosey, help him with his bags, would you?" She insists, and Rosey rolls his eyes.

      "Good to see ya Uce," he says, reaching over Roman's shoulder and pulling him in for a one armed hug. Roman returns it with ease, feeling himself fall back into that family mentality that's been lacking over the last year. Rosey then takes his bags from him, saying he'll take them upstairs to Roman's old room so he can go ahead and catch up with everyone else already. Roman finds himself smiling a little as his mother chatters at him, commenting on how handsome he looks as he's pushed further into the house.

      The smell of familiar homemade cooking and soft Christmas music overtakes Roman's senses, and he feels himself relaxing in a way that he hasn't in quite a long time.

      "Lisa?" A voice says, and Roman feels all the relaxation immediately drain from him as his brain reminds him: _Stand up straight, Pay Attention, and Listen._

      His father appears from behind the wall leading into the living room, and the elder man stops in his tracks when he sees Roman. Roman tries his very best to keep eye contact.

      "Sir," Roman says with a deferring nod, out of habit.

      His father doesn't answer for a long moment, and his mother must recognize the tension between them, so she pushes Roman a little towards him with her hand on his lower back. "Sika, look who surprised us with a visit!"

      Sika snaps out of his stupor, and he steps forward, offering Roman a hand, which the younger man automatically takes. He doesn't expect it to lead into the hug that it does, and he blinks at the solid pats to his back. "Good to see you." Sika says, then pulls away to look Roman in the eye. Roman twitches, just slightly. "Could of warned us of your coming back."

      "I wasn't aware of it until yesterday, Sir," he replies.

      Sika's eyebrows raise. "Still could have called."

      Roman nods. "Yes, Sir."

      Lisa comes to his rescue once again, and steps forward. "We're glad to have you here, Roman." She says quickly, taking his arm. "Come on, everyone is in the living room. Your cousins were just regaling everyone with some of the missions they've been on."

      Roman allows her to take him away towards the living room, and even though he's still in the vicinity of his father, her touch makes the tightness in his shoulders decrease, ever so slightly. "Which ones?" He asks softly.

      "Jimmy and Jey," Lisa replies, with a fond roll over her eyes. "You know how they like to make everything bigger than it is."

      Roman nods, not trusting his words, and tries to ignore the tightening of his mother's features.

      They reach the living room, and he was right once again. Brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins of every kind occupy every space the living room has to offer, plates of snacks his mother no doubt put out in basically everyone's hands. His cousins Jimmy and Jey are in the center, standing up and rather animatedly speaking to everyone else. When he and Lisa enter the living room proper, the attention leaves the twins and zeros in on his mother, and primarily, him.

      "Well ain't you a sight for sore eyes!" Jimmy says, and the rest of the family erupts in cheers and greetings, some of his aunts and uncles standing up to come give him hugs and handshakes and Roman feels his brain swirling deeper and deeper as all of the focus in the room is turned on him. A feeling that hasn't welled up in him in a long while starts to buzz away at him, making it feel like his very bones are going to jitter right out of his skin as various family members start to ask him questions over one another. It slowly starts becoming white noise in his ears as he tries to distinguish one voice from another while still being polite and—

      A single sharp, incredibly loud whistle breaks through the space and into Roman's brain, and he nearly jolts at it just as everyone else does. The room falls silent and all attention is turned now to behind Roman, where Sika stands, pulling his fingers away from his mouth. Roman breathes out, blinking sharply as the buzzing feeling starts to ebb away.

      "One at a time," Sika says, reaching to pat Roman on the shoulder once, which causes a sharp tensing of every muscle in Roman's body, before passing him by to apparently reclaim his seat in one of the recliners. Roman almost relaxes, before his father says, “Tell us about your missions. How are you doing?”

      “Yeah, Uce,” Jey says, sitting across the arm of the chair Jimmy’s in. “Heard you got some crazy shit—”

      “Language, Jey,” his mother, Talisua, reminds gently, without much heat.

      Jey continues on like she hadn’t said anything. “—you’re doin’ with your stable. Attacking NXT and shit?”

      “ _Jey_!” Talisua says, and Jey discreetly rolls his eyes at Jimmy, who repeats the motion back.

      Sika interrupts before Roman can even answer. “Stables, bah!” he chides, “Being put with anyone but family…at least Jimmy and Jey are following in our footsteps, eh Afa?”

      His uncle Afa nods. “Much easier than working with strangers.”

      “To be fair, Dad, Uncle Afa” Rosey says, leaning against the entryway, “Most of our family is already paired with family,” he glances pointedly at Jimmy and Jey. “Or a single Agent.”

      “Would be better if he was a single Agent then,” Sika dismisses with a wave, and Roman can practically feel the energy being sucked out of him.

      He swallows roughly though and starts to speak. “The McMahon’s have expressed incredible interest and have been impressed with our efforts as a team so far in our trial period.” It comes out so mechanically, but he can’t stop it once it starts. “Even though we’re still in our trial period, Mr. Helmsley himself has entrusted us to be a task force within the company that deals with disciplinary actions.”

      “So basically teacher’s pet,” Jimmy snarks, and Jey laughs along, even though it earns a light smack on the arm from their mother.

      Sika makes a face and leans forward in his chair. “You’re not letting the others outshine you.” It’s not phrased like a question.

      “No Sir,” Roman replies, maintaining eye contact with his father as long as he can stand.

      “Good,” Sika replies, sitting back in his chair.

      Roman doesn’t really have anything more to say, all of his words being sucked right out of him in favor of keeping quiet and out of the way. Everyone is looking at him expectantly, and if he doesn’t answer soon it’s going to—

      “How about we let Roman relax for a moment?” his mother—bless her—comes to the rescue once again for him, stepping more into the room to garner attention. She places a hand on his arm. “He’ll be here for two days and I’m sure he’ll have plenty of things to talk about once he’s been able to recuperate a bit. Are you hungry dear?” She starts to lead him out of the living room, passing Rosey, who gives him a sympathetic look. “Dinner will be in a couple of hours but I’m sure that something light won’t ruin your appetite.”

      Roman allows him to be pulled away without a word, and he hears the conversation start up again, thanks to Jimmy and Jey, who draw the conversation back to them. He’ll have to thank them once he has a free moment and the frame of mind to do so.

      Once in the kitchen, Lisa sits him down at the island bar and huffs quietly, pacing in the kitchen. “I tell your father that he shouldn’t make you talk about your work unless you want to, but he always has to push,” she mutters under her breath, fetching a glass from the cupboard and setting it down on the surface in front of Roman. She fetches a half drunk gallon of milk from the fridge and goes to pour a glass for him without him asking her to. “He always has to be poking around in business that honestly doesn’t concern him anymore. He hasn’t been an active Agent for almost twenty five years and yet he still thinks he knows everything.”

      She stomps to the pantry. “Mom,” he says softly, reaching for the milk and rubbing his fingers on the glass.

      Lisa apparently doesn’t hear him, but she returns to the island with a package of cookies and places them in front of Roman. “Have as many as you like, dear,” she says with a smile, then leans against the other side of the island with a sigh, crossing her arms over her chest and staring at the ceiling.

      Roman doesn’t reach for the cookies, but has to smile. This was always his mother’s cure for whenever Roman was overwhelmed when he was younger. Pull him away and feed him something sweet to make him feel better. “Thank you,” he says softly.

      She sighs again and looks at him, her eyebrows a little upturned. “Look at my little boy,” she says softly. “It’s so good to see you.”

      “It’s good to see you too, Mom,” he replies with a small smile of his own. They have a moment where they simply look at each other in silence, and Roman finds the eye contact is so much easier to keep than before. “Are the girls coming this year?”

      Lisa sighs, “Their flight got delayed, hopefully they’ll be here tomorrow,”she says.

      Roman absently reaches for a cookie out of the package, but doesn’t eat it straight away. “It’ll be good to see them,” he comments, staring at the cookie as he moves it around in his fingers.

      “I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you too,” Lisa assures. More silence passes between them, before she speaks again. She reaches to place her hand on one of his, and his fidgeting stops. He glances up at her from under his brows, and she’s smiling softly at him. “You know I’m so incredibly proud of you, right? I just know you’re going to go far. I can just feel it. And it’s going to be all you, all _your_ time and effort and determination and drive that does it. I believe in you.”

      Roman smiles, and even though it’s not much, he feels some weight lift from his heart. “Thank you.”

 

***

      Seth had hardly needed to knock before the door to his parent's house had swung open and he had been bombarded with a hug from his mother. She came up to about his shoulder and he hugged her back, feeling like all of the tension and the stress he had been carrying for the past year had just melted away. He closes his eyes and sighs deeply, burying his face a little in his mom's hair and savoring the moment for just a bit longer.

      When he pulls back and she gets a good look at him however, the smile dissipates. "What happened?" She asks, her voice a mixture of tense and worried all at the same time as he's ushered into the house.

      Another jolt of annoyance at Ambrose for putting him in this situation in the first place pulses through Seth. "Work," he explains simply as his mother helps him with his bags and coat. "Someone on a job thought they would get rough and they managed to get a swing to connect."

      It's the story he's been rehearsing and perfecting ever since the black eye really started to look bad. "Are you sure you're alright?" She asks.

      "I'm fine, Mom," he dismisses gently. "It's not broken or anything, just a cut, a bloody nose, and a black eye. It's not nearly as bad as it looks. Doctor said it was fine."

      While making a face, she beckons him down so she can look. He goes with her whim and leans down slightly, trying not to smile as she does. WWE have some of the greatest medical minds in all of the country if not the world in their employ and yet their inspections still don't hold any weight against his mother.

      She gently touches the bruising on the bridge and he twitches lightly, the skin, cartilage and bone underneath still tender. "If you're sure....." she replies warily, and he knows, just _knows_ she's going to give him a talking to later.

      "Well who turned your face into hamburger?" His stepdad asks from the couch, looking up from his paper as they enter the kitchen through the living room.

      Seth smirks and offers his prepared joke. "You should see the other guy," he chuckles, and pulls a chair from the table so he can sit down.

      It gets the desired laugh and well wishes from his stepdad, and that's all he can ask for.

      "How was your flight?" His mother asks, and Seth sighs gently.

      "Really nice actually," he replies relaxing back in his chair. "Not too much turbulence or anything. I'm actually surprised that it's snowing less here than back home." He decides to skip out on telling them that his boss chartered him a private plane all to himself for the sake of not having to explain it away.

      “That’s good. I'm still amazed at how nice your boss was to get you a ticket.” his mother replies, stepping fully into the kitchen to no doubt go back to her cooking.

      "You and me both," Seth replies with a slight chuckle, running a hand through his hair and pushing it out of his eyes.

      “I’m glad everything went ok too, you know how winter storms can be…” Seth watches her fiddle around for awhile, and the sight plus the smell and the sound of his step dad watching football in the living room makes it feel like he never really left.

      “Do you want any help?” Seth asks, remembering all the times before when he helped his mother cook on Holidays.

      She waves him off as she stirs something on the stove. “You don’t have to honey, I know you’re probably tired from your flight.”

      Seth smiles and stands up anyways, rolling up his sleeves just above his elbows and walking into the kitchen. “I insist,” he replies, and it causes a little smile to quirk his mother’s mouth.

      “You could stir the gravy while I get ready to whip the mashed potatoes,” she says, handing the spoon off to him as she turns to the island.

      He stirs gently, his stomach practically growling already at the idea of mashed potatoes. “Everything smells great,” he compliments, smiling in actual excitement to be having a his mom’s home cooking for the first time in so long.

      “Thank you,” she replies, then flicks on a hand mixer to start whipping up the potatoes. They stay like that for a few long minutes, Seth carefully stirring the gravy do it doesn’t burn, and his mother loudly mixing up the potatoes until they're fluffy and smooth. Finally, his mother must deem them done, since she removes the hand mixer, banging the beaters against the edge of the pan to get the excess potato off of them. “So how have Roman and…..I don’t believe you told me your other roommate’s name,” she says suddenly and Seth blinks.

      “It’s uh—” he swallows. “It’s Dean.”

      She nods. “How have they been?”

      Seth swallows roughly again. He almost tells her everything, well not _everything_ , but all about the fact that Ambrose was the one who hit him in the first place, and that the asshole hadn’t apologized for it at all and probably never will, and that even though their a team and he’s actually tried to get along with Ambrose a little bit more lately the whole ending of that NXT demonstration has just pulled them apart even more and it feels like it’s back to square one and—

      “Honey?” His mom’s voice catches him and pulls him back to the present.

      He doesn’t tell her everything, just smiles a little ruefully and returns his attention to the gravy, stirring it with a little more vigor than before. “They’re ok, as far as I know,” he admits, always inserting a bit of truth with his lies.

      He doesn’t see his mom’s face, but he can tell there’s a little smile there too, as she says, “That sounds good at least. Have you been getting along ok?”

      The memory of pain blooming across his face is the only thing Seth can think about as he speaks, “We’ve been having ups and downs,” he says, easy as anything.

      She doesn’t respond for a few long minutes, fiddling around with something behind Seth’s back. Finally, she comes to him, and places a hand on his shoulder. “I think it’s good now, honey.”

      He releases the wooden spoon. “Ok,” is all he can really say.

      His mother takes a deep breath and lets it out, and the slight tremor in it gives away leagues. “I know—” she starts “—that you can’t talk about your job very much if not at all because of security reasons and everything. I understand that. And I also know that you’re a grown man who has proven that he can take care of himself...but I’m still your mother, and I still worry about you.” The grip on his shoulder gets a little tighter. “So I just want to ask you,” She continues, and he looks down at her. “Are you ok?”

      He looks at her for a long moment, looking over a face he knows so well, noticing a few more gray hairs then he remembers, and he sighs deeply. “I’m really glad to be here, Mom,” he says softly, almost in a whisper.

     She seems to understand what he means by that, and her smile is slightly melancholy as she drags him into a hug, pulling his head down to her shoulder like she’s done ever since he passed her up in height. She’s careful with his nose as she presses him against her. “I’m glad too.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna be real here I have no idea how private planes work I mean I only went on my first plane ride ever like two weeks ago when I went to go to RAW, which by the way was one of the most amazing things I've *ever* done. I got to see the boys and Shawn Michaels and Undertaker live and I cried just like I thought I would lol. (Also you can basically see me in the background the entire time and there's a clear shot of me holding my hand over my heart as Taker and Kane beat up Shawn and Triple H.)
> 
> Also, good moms are good. Not enough good moms.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I want to give all of my hopes and well wishes to Roman Reigns that he gets well soon and comes back better than ever. He is such a strong guy and being so forthcoming with this has earned him my complete respect and I wish nothing but good things for him.
> 
> Secondly, on a higher note, I want to thank everyone sincerely and from the bottom of my heart for liking this fic. We're over 150,000 words now, and while I know this is the slow burn of the century, there are still so many of you who read, kudos, and comment on this fic and it honestly makes me so happy to see all of it. This fic has over three thousand hits and that blows my mind that that many people have taken the time to stop and take a look at my writing. I'm excited to continue writing, and I'm excited to see how much more this story and characters evolve. Thank you all again, so much.
> 
> As always, mistakes are my own and if there's anything glaringly wrong, let me know!

***

          Thankfully, no more familial interrogations happen before or after dinner, simple pleasantries that Roman is thankful allow him to stay quiet and in the background as he gathers himself. The dinner is extravagant and delicious as always, and Roman makes a mental note to help his mother the next day for the dinner their no doubt going to have when the rest of the family gets there.

So Roman goes to sleep the night of Christmas Eve in his old room that's been converted into a guest room, with a vague mixture of relaxation and dread for the days to come.

 

          He wakes up Christmas morning, right before dawn, with the mask almost entirely in place. Being physically—however not mentally—away from the pressures of his family had let the mask slip to the point where the confrontation from last night had thrown him, and he knows that it showed. His father and mother and the rest of his family could see that he wasn't coming here expecting to talk about work, but considering his family and what they do, that it should have been number one on his list.

          He can't let it happen again. 

          So he stands, and rummages through his suitcase for his toiletries and his church clothes, hanging the suit, shirt, tie and up so that some of the wrinkles will hopefully fall away while he's showering. He should have brought a garment bag, what was he thinking?

          He wasn't thinking. He's letting things slip. He can't let them slip any more.

          Roman showers quickly in the bathroom across the hall, noticing that he's not the only one starting to wake at this hour. It makes sense, considering how much of their family has been trained like he has. He makes it quick, not using too much of the hot water but making sure that he's clean, something he's thankful NXT trained into him. Once out he spends a little extra time shaving, making sure his facial hair is clean and perfect down to the last hair. He's let it grow out too much.

          Getting dressed for Christmas Mass almost feels like he's suiting up for a mission, putting on something to distract outsiders but also protect him from them. In front of the full length mirror set up in the corner of the bedroom, Roman's hands deftly knot his tie into a complicated yet subtle pattern that will impress a keen eye but not look like he's trying too hard. He throws his suit jacket on, straightening his shirt sleeves and wishing that he had brought some cuff links. He ties his hair back in a tight and neat bun, making sure everything looks smooth and nothing like the messy buns he ties his hair in at home. The thought of calling the apartment home jars him a little but he pushes it away, down deep where he can think about it later. Right now, he needs to focus on recovering from last night and saving face. As the youngest member of his family in WWE right now, he can't look like he's not taking things seriously, he just can't.

          Smoothing everything out and making sure his shoes are shiny and clean but not overly so, Roman takes full stock of himself in the mirror.

          It's been well over a year since he's seen himself dressed  _ this _ nicely. Sure, some training missions had them dress up, but none to the extent he's dressed himself up to now. To the unknown passerby, it would look as though there's not a hair out of place on him, but Roman knows better. He looks himself in the eyes, heaves a great breath, and brings the mask down securely in place.

 

          Thankfully, his family prefers to go to the earliest Mass, so that they can return home and spend the rest of the day opening presents and spending time with the whole family. Roman isn't sure whether or not he'd be able to handle being alone with himself and his thoughts for that amount of time. From now until the day is over, he can focus on what's happening around him.

          He steps quietly downstairs, knowing that even though most of his older relatives had been staying in a hotel the night before, there are still a good amount of family that still might potentially be asleep. He has every intention to eat something despite the fact that he's not hungry in the least, knowing that he'll worry his mother is he doesn't.

          Speaking of which, when he steps into the kitchen, Jimmy and Jey are sitting at the island, and his mother is dishing out eggs from a frying pan for them. It shouldn't be a surprise that they'd be up at this hour, considering they're Agents as well. Something about the NXT training stuck with a lot of people as long as you still worked for WWE. All three of them look up, and Jey whistles while Jimmy smirks at him. "What, you going for a business meeting, Cuz?"

          Roman resists the urge to look down at his clothes, knowing that it's just a rib. Both Jimmy and Jey have collared shirts on and their blazers hang over the backs of their chairs, but they're both in dark jeans and neither have ties on. "It's Christmas," he says simply, and steps more into the room.

          Lisa smiles at him. "You look so nice, dear!" she says, entirely too chipper for someone that technically doesn't  _ have _ to wake up this early and didn't have it trained into her like the three men in the room.

          He nods and hovers a little bit, taking a seat down at one of the other stools at the island, knowing that his mother is going to feed him whether he wants to eat or not, now.

          "You didn't know you were coming here until two days ago and you still look better than us, that's not fair, Uce," Jey teases, but Roman doesn't respond. He probably should, but nothing comes out of him.

          "Are you alright, Roman?" Lisa asks, bringing over a plate of cheesy eggs, toast, and a glass of milk.

          He looks up at her and nods. "Just a little tired. Didn't sleep well." He looks back down at the food and starts to carefully eat at it so he doesn't spill on himself.

          "Would you like some coffee?" Lisa says carefully.

          He glances up at her. "Yes please. Thank you."

          "Don't blame you for being tired with the kinda shit that WWE's putting you through already," Jimmy says, stabbing his fork into his eggs.

          "That whole enforcing thing on top of trial shit? No thanks," Jey finishes.

          "Language, boys," Lisa admonishes softly from the coffee maker. "At least not on Christmas?" She asks with a gentle smile.

          Both Jimmy and Jey mumble their apologies, and even though Roman is certain that it's not going to change anything, the sentiment for his mother is nice.

          He eats mechanically, keeping his eyes trained on his plate as he eats. He perks up a little at the sound of the rest of the house waking up, sounds of showers being run and floorboards creaking above them, but continues to focus on his food rather than talking. Normally, everything his mother cooks is delicious, and it probably still is, but Roman can't even really taste it.

          His eyes flicker up when a steaming coffee cup is placed in front of him. "Cream or sugar?" Lisa asks, and he swallows, hesitating.

          When he still lived here, he took his coffee black because that's how his father did it, even though he didn't really like it. Coffee, however rare it was in NXT, was always black and bitter, but he muscled through it when he needed to.

          He swallows again before answering. "A little. Of both please." he says, a little stilted, like he's afraid his answer is incriminating in any way.

          "Alright, dear," Lisa replies softly, and goes to fetch them.

          As she's adding both to his cup and he's working on his toast, his father finally makes an appearance.

          "Good Morning," he says, a little louder than probably necessary, and Roman suddenly sits up straight, the grip on his toast tightening. "Merry Christmas."

          "Merry Christmas," the rest of them respond automatically, as he steps in.

          Lisa offers Sika a cup of black coffee as he enters the kitchen, a small smile on her face. Roman sets the toast back down on his plate, itching for a napkin so he can get the crumbs off his hands. Back at the apartment, he would probably just have wiped the crumbs off on his pants, but he can't do that now, not with Sika in the room.

          "I don't envy you boys. Waking up this early all the time," Sika says through a sigh, taking a deep pull of his coffee.

          "You used to do it to though, Uncle Sika?" Jey asks through a mouthful of egg, unconcerned about it in a way that frankly makes Roman's heart flutter in his chest. Taking a slow measured breath so as to not draw attention to himself, Roman reaches for his coffee so he has something to do with his hands.

          Sika shakes his head. "No," then chuckles, "Much more lenient in my time."

          "That ain't fair," Jimmy complains, and Roman blinks through a flinch through only sheer force of will.

          "The new training is good for some things," Sika concedes, sitting going to sit at the kitchen table instead of the open seat next to Roman. The younger Samoan silently thanks God, not knowing how he would be able to handle having his father so close to him right now, able to see every little movement Roman makes. "Safer, and instills a good work rate from the beginning. Sometimes it doesn't take though." Sika murmurs the last part a little derisively, and Roman desperately repeats in his head that his father isn't talking about him, but something deep down can't help but call out that the elder man is.

          "Finished, dear?" Lisa asks gently as he passes by him after plating some food for his father.

          He nods, appetite all lost even though he hadn't eaten much. He tries to ignore the look that Lisa gives him as she takes his plate away under the guise of being focused on his coffee, but he knows it doesn't work.

          More family members who had stayed the night—including Rikishi, the twins' father— start to trail in and out of the kitchen and dining room, wishing Merry Christmases and having the sentiment return in an ever growing chorus of voices. Most of the family had stayed in motels, and were meeting them at the church, which Roman is glad for. It'll give him enough time to be able to pull himself together.

          "Did Summer and Vanessa call?" Sika asks as his mother finishes slipping Roman's plate into the dishwasher.

          "They should both be in around two, weather permitting," Lisa replies over the rush of the sink water.

          Sika shakes his head again. "Snow," is all he says, like the entire concept of it disgusts him. "Don't know how you kids do it," he murmurs.

          "It sucks," Jey agrees, and Jimmy nods along with.

          "Good conditioning though, huh, Uce?" Jimmy says, elbowing Roman and jostling him a little bit.

          Roman sits up a little straighter as the attention is brought to him. "Takes some getting used to," he says, then takes a drink of his coffee so he doesn't have to say anymore. He's going to need more coffee if he keeps that up.

          Lisa returns from the pantry with several large Tupperware stacked on top of one another, and Roman—without provocation—quickly stands up to stop one of them from sliding off the top.

          It's silent for a long moment, before Lisa peeks her head around the stack. "Thank you, dear!" She says as she sets the tower down on the cleared off island. Roman follows her example and places the rescued Tupperware with it.

          "You're welcome," he replies.

          "Would you mind helping me package these up?" She asks, and Roman notices that they're filled to the brim with cookies. His mother must have been baking up a storm for the past few days. It makes sense though, his mother always likes to bring cookies to Christmas Mass. She'd make enough for the whole congregation if she could.

          "Sure," he replies, slowly slipping his suit jacket off so he doesn't end up getting anything on it before they head out, especially since he doesn't have anything else he could possibly wear.

          "We'll have some plates and bring some containers full of them, maybe a dozen or two each?" Lisa thinks and instructs out loud, and Roman rolls up his shirtsleeves, taking the closest container to him as he focuses on the task, glad that his mother has given him something to do.

          After a few minutes of conversation Roman blocks out, the twins and Sika trail out of the kitchen, either to leave them be or not to be roped into cookie packaging duty. It barely reaches Roman's notice as he counts, arranging cookies and fudge and brownies and all the other things his mother made on plates and into containers.

          "How have you been?" Lisa asks lightly, probably as a way of conversation, and even though Roman rather wishes she hadn't, it feels far less invasive than all the attention last night. He doesn't look at her as he speaks, counting in his head and handing them off to her as she arranges them.

          "Good," he automatically says. "Can't complain."

          Lisa is silent for a long moment, and Roman figures she's just arranging things before her next question. "How is everyone else. Your Stablemates?"

          "Good," he nods again, and she sighs. It jars him enough that he loses count of the shortbread cookies in his hands.

          He hazards a look up at her, and even though she's shorter than he is, he feels like a child all over again when he sees the tightness of her lips and the slight dip of her eyebrows, clear indicators that she's irritated with him. "Are you really?" She asks, and before he can even nod, she adds, "Then why are you giving off the same clear indicators that you've made since you were a child that you're anything but?"

          Roman swallows. "Mom—"

          "Can you tell me how you really are, instead of what you think I want to hear?" She interrupts, and Roman's mouth snaps shut. "You don't have to impress me," she adds, the tone of her voice softening, but in a way that sounds wounded. Roman swallows roughly.

          "I'm sorry," he says softly, his voice cracking on the last syllable. He looks back down at his hands, because he can't bring himself to look at her and see her no doubt disappointed face.

          Lisa sighs again, but this time, it doesn't sound irritated or wounded, just tired. He starts to try to count cookies again, and her hand appears gently at his wrist and he stops. "Roman, put the cookies down."

          "But—"

          "They're not important," she says, and Roman carefully drops what's in his hands on the counter. The hand on his wrist moves to his shoulder, and starts to pet in a soothing, familiar motion. "How are you?" She tries again.

          Roman swallows. It takes long, silent seconds before he murmurs, "I've been better."

          Lisa pets at him a little more firmly. "Is it your father?"

          "I've gotten sloppy," Roman blurts suddenly, and it feels like the floodgates have opened. "I thought I could just come back like nothing's happened, but I was wrong. I haven't been here for over a year and it shows and I know he can tell. I'm doing everything wrong and even though I'm trying my hardest with work it still doesn't feel like it's enough. It never feels like it's enough,"

          "Oh Roman, dear..." Lisa says, but Roman keeps talking, unable to stop talking even though his father is in the next room.

          "I'm trying to prove that even though I'm in a Stable that doesn't mean I wasn't good enough to be on my own. Dean and Seth and I work together _ so well  _ when we all try, but it feels like  _ I'm _ the only one that's actively trying, even though it's been  _ two months _ since we became a Stable. I know that's not a long time in retrospect, but I'm afraid that if we don't start off on a good foot of mutual respect and hard work now, that it's all going to go south in the long run and none of us are going to make it, and if we don't make it, Sika will never let me live it down and—"

          Despite the fact that his mother is not a huge, strong woman, she manages to bodily turn him to face her and squeeze his biceps. "Roman, honey, take deep breaths with me," she says, and starts to breathe obviously, trying to get Roman to focus on her and copy the pattern.

          His babbling stops and he focuses on her face; Warm, familiar, and caring. He breathes in through his nose, and out through his mouth, following her until it doesn't feel like he's going to burst out of his skin. "Sorry," he finally says, once he feels ready enough to speak.

          Lisa shakes her head gently at him, shushing as she squeezes his biceps, "Shhh, shhh, honey. You don't  _ ever _ have to apologize for something like that." She reaches up to cup his cheek, and his eyes meet hers, still so much easier than anyone else. "You've had a lot on your plate and I don't blame you for being so stressed about it."

          He bites back another, 'I'm sorry', knowing that she won't want to hear it. "I don't want it to seem like I can't do it, that I'm falling behind.”

          "You're father's no help," Lisa says, her brows drawing low. "He of all people knows how stressful all this is. You're not falling behind dear, you said so yourself, that the McMahon's have been impressed with you so far?"

          Roman nods. "They have."

          Lisa smiles then, a gentle, encouraging thing. "Then what better endorsement do you have? Your father can't argue that."

          Roman blinks. She's right. God, she's absolutely right, just like she's always been. "Thank you," he says, looking down and away, embarrassed over what he realizes now was a mounting panic attack.

          Lisa's smile widens. "Sometimes, Roman, you just need someone who's not on the inside of your brain—" she pokes the center of his forehead gently, "—to talk some sense. Logic things out."

          "Thank you," he says again, with all the emotion he can muster into his voice.

          "Anytime," she says, and he knows it for the truth. She reaches up to pull his head down, and he goes willingly, feeling the kiss on his forehead. "I love you, dear," she says.

          "Love you too," he murmurs back.

          Pulling away, Lisa smiles. "Now, shall we go back to cookie arranging? I'm sure that the congregation will miss them if we don't get them done."

          "Wouldn't want a riot on our hands."

          It just slips out of him, joking like he would with Dean, and both he and his mother stops in their tracks, and his eyes shoot up to her face. Her eyes are wide for a moment, but eventually, another smile breaks out on her face. "I think living with your Stablemates is going to be good for you."

          Roman looks back down at his hands. "I hope so," he confides, before reaching to start counting cookies again.

 

          Eventually, everyone and everything is ready, and they all pile into various cars and drive to the church, and Roman is once again glad for the temperate weather compared to the cold. The talk with his mother and the subsequent car ride relaxes him and gives him enough time to be able to more confidently present himself. He can do this, he's done this exact thing for over twenty years. He can handle a Christmas Mass.

          They manage to get a good parking space despite the fact that the parking lot is still quite full, even at this time of morning. The sanctuary will be practically packed to the brim for the second and third services, but there are more than enough people here to see that they had the same idea as Roman's family. Worship early, so the rest of the holiday can be spent with family.

          They're early as always, and Roman helps Lisa with the pastries, placing them out with the rest of the food people seem to bring on Holidays. His mother's baked goods always seem to be the things that run out first, which Roman knows his mother is secretly incredibly proud of, despite the fact that she won't say anything about it.

          They run into church members and ushers and people Roman has gone to church with pretty much his entire life, and he easily slips into simple pleasantries, a script he's able to easily follow. It doesn't escape his notice how some of the elder women comment to his mother on, 'What a handsome young man he's grown into," and whether or not, "He's found someone?" He even hears some of them offer to introduce some female relative of theirs to him, and thankfully, his mother declines and deflects for him, stating that he's too focused on his work right now to be thinking about dating.

          It's strange sometimes, how routine lying is in their family. His family has been in the Espionage and Mercenary business as far back as they can really trace, with the entire family privy to that information. He knows that he's rather lucky in that regard that he doesn't have to hide anything from his family, but it's strange, to be here, on Christmas Day in Church, skillfully lying and deflecting about his job and personal life, to keep himself and the people around him safe.

          He offers easy fake smiles and more small talk, until finally, the crowds start to file into the sanctuary.

          After that, the service starts to go by in a blur. It's easy for Roman to go through the motions of singing hymns, listening to a sermon that he's heard every year his entire life, and lining up for communion, receiving a blessing from the priest before sitting back down. All together, the service maybe lasts a little more than an hour, and nothing completely disastrous has happened, so Roman counts that as a win compared to how he felt earlier.

          They spend a little bit more time at the church after the service, more catching up with family friends and more of the congregation. Roman finds it in himself to be able to eat some of the cookies his mom made, carrying them around on a little plate as manages to sequesters himself off in a little corner, away from most of the crowd. Rosey finds him and joins him at one point, ribbing on him about how much the old church ladies and their female relatives want a piece of him. Roman actually laughs—not just out of politeness like most of the day—and elbows Rosey hard enough in the side that his brother surrenders with placating hands and a laugh.

          Finally, it’s arranged that anyone and everyone belonging to their family will be heading back to his parent’s house, and he’s a little glad, despite the fact that it’s still plenty of people. It’s his family however, and now that he’s had time to recuperate and really think, he’s fairly certain he’s going to be able to talk if someone wants him to. Besides, most of the rest of the day is going to be spent exchanging and opening presents, his younger cousins and nephews and nieces and whoever taking the focus away from him instead.

 

          He’s right, once they’ve changed out of church clothes—Roman still wearing a nice collared shirt because he’s  _ not _ about to talk around on a Holiday in a t-shirt and shorts—and they’ve all settled into the large family room, all the attention is pushed away from him in turn for exchanging the presents piled child high in front of the Christmas tree. He feels stress drain from him as he watches his little cousins open their toys and gifts with a single minded determination and wonder that he sort of wishes he still had. It’s nice to sit though, and just observe.

          Between opening presents and serving a light lunch, Lisa sits down next to Roman—who’s put himself a little further on the outskirts in the family room just in case—and sighs. He puts a hand on hers, and smiles. She must be exhausted from all the work she puts into this, but he can tell, she’s happy. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything, as always.”

          She looks up at him. “So sorry there aren’t any gifts for you to open yet. I was going to make a care package and send it to you.”

          He actually smiles a little with his teeth, chuckling and shaking his head in disbelief. “You don’t have to get me anything,” he says, even though he knows she’s going to anyway. “I’m sorry  _ I _ didn’t bring anything,” he adds.

          Lisa laughs back at him and squeezes his hand, leaning her head to lay on his shoulder. “You being here is all the present I need,” she says gently.

          Roman closes his eyes and leans his head carefully onto hers. “I love you Mom,” he says.

          “I love you too, sweetheart.”

  
  
  
  


***

          Dean spends the early morning hours of Christmas walking around the neighborhood. He had woken up early, as usual, but seeing that there was no Roman making coffee in the kitchen or Rollins making his gross smoothie things to tease about, he quickly got bored. Normally, he'd hate walking in the snow, but at least it was better than sitting alone in the apartment with jack shit to do. He figures he can get some coffee and maybe like a muffin or something from that coffee shop as an excuse to stay out longer, and the more he thinks about it, the more the rumbling in his stomach agrees.

          So he stuffs himself into his leather jacket and pulls a beanie over his head so his ears don't get cold and walks, thankful that the city had finally plowed everything the night before. At first it's a little strange to him that he doesn't see a lot of cars on the road or people out. Yeah, it's still a little early, but it's not even snowing and everything's been plowed out, so it's a little strange to him that it looks like he's the only one out as he walks down the street from the apartment. Then it hits him. Early mornings for Christmas are usually spent opening presents. Right.

          His lips draw flat as he continues to walk, hunching a little more in on himself as he strides through a particularly strong gust of wind. He continues to stay slightly hunched as he walks, finally coming upon the coffee shop which is thankfully open now that he thinks about it, but notices that there is a sign posted on the front door stating their special hours for the day. He scans it over and nods to himself as he carefully strides in. The shop isn't overly crowded, maybe one or two people inside, and out of habit, Dean stomps his boots on the floor mat in the entryway to rid his shoes of any excess snow. He quietly approaches the counter where a probably more chipper looking than they actually are barista smiles at him. "Hello, Merry Christmas! What can I get for you?"

          Dean is a little taken aback by the Holiday greeting, and he glances up at the menu, realizing he didn't think of what to get before he got here. "Sorry," he mumbles, "Just a second."

          She laughs, "Take your time. I'm not expecting many people to be coming in today."

          He glances back at her. "Careful, now they will."

          She shifts behind the counter. "At least it'll make time go by faster," she concedes, and he nods absently back.

          He ends up getting a French Vanilla Dark Roast coffee, figuring it'll taste something similar to coffee with creamer and sugar in it, which is what he usually has, and the barista smiles and turns away to start making it.

          While she works, Dean glances around, reading some of the other signs that are hung around the little shop. His eyes then train in on the pastries and breakfast foods in the glass cases, feeling his stomach grumble again. "And can I get a name—?" The Barista starts to ask, and Dean gives her a look the same time she stops herself, closing her eyes and smiling a little bit before opening them. "Sorry, force of habit," she jokes.

          "It's Dean," he shrugs, going along with it.

          Her smile widens and she quickly scrawls what he assumes is his name on the cup. Approaching the register she asks, "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

          He points to what looks like a bagel sandwich. "What's in that?"

          "Ham, egg and cheese," she answers easily.

          "One of those too please," he says, and she nods, quickly reaching for it. He watches her throw it into a little oven to no doubt warm it back up again, even though Dean doubts it's been in the case very long considering how early it is. As it's warming, the Barista returns to the register, wiping her hands on a towel before punching in the price.

          Dean fishes out his wallet and hands her his card, taking it back once she swipes it. As she turns to retrieve his bagel from the oven, he reaches for his coffee and takes a sip, blinking at the sweet taste. It's not bad, quite the opposite really, compared to coffee with creamer and sugar in it anyway. While she's turned around, he notices a tip jar that's looking rather empty, and fishes out his wallet again. With a sly little smile, he folds a fifty dollar bill up and slips it into the little jar, slipping his wallet back into his pocket just as she turns back around. She offers him the sandwich in a little paper sleeve and he nods to her. "Thank you," he replies.

          "Absolutely," she says with a smile. "Have a nice day!"

          Without much fanfare, Dean turns away, taking a bite of the bagel as he shoulders his way out the door, a little bell ringing above his head as he does so. It's just starting to snow a little bit as he steps outside, and he glances up at the sky. He sighs softly through his nose as he begins his trek back to the apartment, turning left instead of right so that he takes the long way back. 

          As he takes another sip of his coffee, he sees the scrawl of what the Barista wrote on his cup.

_           ‘Merry Christmas, Dean!’ _

          Dean snorts a little through his nose, taking another sip of coffee and bite of the sandwich. He might have to learn how to make these for himself. Then again, a visit to the coffee shop every once in a while might be nice. 

          Maybe he and Renee can go there tomorrow.

  
  
  


***

          The soft sounds of classical Christmas music drifting through the halls flows through Seth's subconscious, dragging him gently into the waking world. He moans a little as his eyes flutter open to a room that he's not quite familiar waking up to but also  _ is  _ familiar with at the same time.

          It all comes back to him again, the fact that he's back in Iowa, with his parents, celebrating Christmas with them for the first time in a year. A smile can't help but break out on Seth's face. He chuckles, letting the soft muted music flow through him, able to recognize the song if he tries hard enough. For a moment, he doesn't think about missions, doesn't think about getting up and running, and he doesn't even think about Ambrose.

          With a sigh and feeling more well rested than he has in a great long time, Seth sits up, yawning and stretching his arms over his head. He forgot how comfortable his bed was here, and makes a mental note to see if he can get a more comfortable mattress back at the apartment. He stands, not even checking the time, before he carefully steps out of the room, not even bothering to change out of his pajamas. He doesn't even check to see what time it is or how late in he slept. It's Christmas, so why should he?

          The house is rather quiet, but as he steps into the living room, he's taken aback by his Mother and Step Dad sitting, apparently waiting for him. "Merry Christmas!" They both say, and a smile so big it actually hurts a little stretches across Seth's face. 

          "Merry Christmas," he says in return.

          "You sleep ok?" His mother asks, and he nods, padding over to the open part of the couch next to his mother, where there is a rather overfull stocking sitting next to her.

          "I did," he replies. "That for me?"

          His mother nods energetically, a big smile on her face as well. "It is!"

          Seth laughs, "Mom, I haven't had a stocking since I was twenty," he watches her pull it out of the way so he can sit. "Because you said it was my last year."

          "I thought it would be nice since you've been away for so long," she replies, the same time his step dad jokes, "We can take it back if you want."

          Seth just laughs and puts up placating hands. "Alright, alright, you've twisted my leg.”

          His mother hands it over to him, and he laughs at the amount of candy and sweets in it. There’s also a fifty dollar Amazon gift card, a pair of warm wool socks, and a really fancy fountain pen that he stares at in awe. “This is beautiful,” he says, “Thank you.”

          His mother smiles. “Think of it as making up for last year since you didn’t get anything. For  _ all _ your presents.”

          His smile wanes a little bit. “I’m sorry, I was planning on getting you both something,” he admits. “But I got so busy with work that I didn’t really have time.”

          “You’re here, sport,” his step dad says. “That’s enough.”

          Seth can’t help but smile and stare down at his stocking. “Thank you,” he replies.

          “Now, let’s get you more presents,” his mother says, obviously excited, moving to the tree and grabbing several boxes and bags.

          It’s overwhelming. He ends up getting a nice new watch, one that can withstand water—which might be nice considering his job—and several nice sweaters that fit him nicely, his mother citing that she was worried about him not having enough warm clothes for the winter.

          He also gets a waffle maker and a crock pot, things he wasn’t expecting, but his mother claims they were on too good of a sale to pass up, and if he can’t fit it in his luggage she can just send it out to him after the holidays are done.

          His step dad gets him a really nice flashlight—something he’s actually excited to use—saying that a good flashlight is “Always good to have, even if it’s not for working security during the night.”

          He gets more socks, and honestly, he never thought there would be a time where he was glad that he’d get clothes he didn’t have to pay for for Christmas. Of course now with his crazy WWE salary he doesn’t necessarily have that problem anymore, but the sentiment is incredibly nice.  
  


          They nibble on snacks that his mom makes and Seth helps her make the lavish dinner she always prepares for Christmas, still insisting that she didn’t need to go through all the trouble of making a huge dinner yesterday and today just because he’s visiting. She just tells him to hush and keep stirring most of the time, the happiness evidently clear on her face. So he goes along with it, enjoying the obvious feeling of belonging. He’s wanted here, and more than that, he’s loved here. Not for the first time in the past couple of days he wishes he had the ability to visit more often. It’s nice though, that his parents understand.

          After an early dinner where both Seth and his Step Dad praise her cooking, they watch several Christmas movies, including Miracle on 34th street, A Christmas story, and of course the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. 

          They sing Christmas Carols with mild success over his mother playing the small electric piano they have in the front room, his step dad singing worse and worse on purpose just to make Seth laugh and mess up his own part.

          And eventually, when his father goes to bed, citing he needs to get up early for work the next day, his mother sits him down, and he gets the talk he was expecting. 

          “Did you have a good day?” She asks as they relax in the living room, and he knows by the tone of her voice that she’s already sad that he has to pack up and leave tomorrow afternoon.

          “I did,” Seth nods. “Thank you so much for everything. It’s exactly what I needed.”

          She smooths her hands down her pants for a moment before talking. “And everything is ok with work right? They’re not putting you in harms way?”

          Seth sighs, knowing this was coming. He swallows, choosing his words as carefully as always. “There’s always a risk, when it comes to my job,” he says, even though he knows it’s not really what she wants to hear. “I know this—” he gestures to his face, “—worries you, and I’m sorry for that. But my teammates and I have been trained very well to handle all types of situations, and I know you’re still going to worry because you’re my mom, but I’m as safe as I possibly can be where I’m at.”

          She smiles, a little ruefully. “I know dear, and like I said, you’re an adult. And I’m still your mother and I’m still going to worry. I’m proud of you.” She sighs. “I can imagine how stressful your job is and I’m so incredibly glad you got to come out here. It’s a Christmas miracle.”

          “Mooom—” he says, rolling his eyes and partially covering his face with his hands because really?

          She laughs. “I’m sorry honey, It’s just been so good to have you here.”

          He nods. “Me too. I’ll be all refreshed and ready to get back at it when I get back.”

          “Are you or did you do anything with your roommates?”

          Seth shrugs. “We didn’t really talk about doing anything, no.”

          “You should,” she urges. “Even if it’s just a little thing. They were probably just as stressed as you were and maybe it’ll be nice to be able to talk about it with people who understand, who you work with.”

          Seth nods. “Maybe.”

          “Is it hard, working with them?” His mother masks softly, like she doesn’t quite want to bring it up. “Is that why you’re so reluctant?”

          She’s always been good at picking up things Seth doesn’t necessarily say aloud. He pulls his knees  up to his chest in his seat. “Sort of,” he replies. “It has its ups and downs.” He sighs, “This job we were on before we came here was…..stressful….to say the least,”

          “It’ll get better,” his mom insists. “Stuff like that is always rocky in the beginning, since you’re still learning and growing with one another. I bet in time it’ll get easier. Maybe not less stressful, but easier.”

          Seth smiles a little bit. “I hope so,” he admits quietly, his mind once again flashing back to Ambrose punching him.

          “All you can do is try,” she says.

          Seth huffs out a small laugh. “I guess so.”

 

          They change the subject then, talking more about what she and his Step Dad have been doing within the last year. It’s nice just to hear his mother talk, and he answers accordingly, until he can feel himself growing gradually more tired as he listens to her, warm and comfortable as he rests his head on the arm of the chair. When the grandfather clock starts to chime, his mother laughs. “We should really get you to bed so you’re not so tired for your flight tomorrow.”

          He smiles. “I’ll be fine,” he murmurs, his eyes betraying him and falling heavy.

          “It’s been _so_ nice to have you here.”

          “I’ll try to visit more often,” he promises, hoping he can keep it.

          “Whenever you have time.” she says.

          He feels a hand gently touch his hair, and it reminds him of the many times he’s fallen asleep here, in the living room, either watching TV or listening to his mother talk, and he allows himself to stand and be ushered sleepily to his room. Outside the door, his mother gives him a great big hug, and he returns it, leaning down so he can hook his chin over her neck. “Goodnight Mom.”

          “Merry Christmas, honey.”

          “Merry Christmas.”

  
  
  
  
  


***

          It's as Dean's walking past shops and storefronts that he has the sudden thought that maybe he should have bought presents. The immediate thought after that argues with the first thought with the question, 'Why?' and the original thought answers with, 'because that's what we're supposed to do, right?'

          It almost makes Dean stop in his tracks. Is that something he should have done? Should he have gotten something for Roman and Rollins? Is that something that roommates do?

          It's not an idea he's really familiar with, the concept of Holidays and roommates. It's also probably too late to be thinking about this on Christmas Day of all times, but here he is, standing in front of several shops that are probably closed for the holiday, drinking coffee that's getting colder the longer he stands there, thinking about it.

          With how their working relationship is at the moment and just how much Rollins generally hates Dean's guts, he doesn't particularly  _ want  _ to get the half blonde something, but he figures if he were to get Roman something, Rollins would throw a silent hissy fit about it and act all passive aggressive to him for the rest of forever.

          He'd wanna get Roman something. Maybe not something huge, but the guy has been pretty chill about most things concerning living and working together, so he'd probably want to get something. Besides, Roman seems like he's totally the kind of person to get gifts for people without really asking whether or not they want something, and Dean doesn't want to be caught in the fucking faux pas of not exchanging gifts, even though Roman would absolutely insist that Dean didn't need to get him anything in return.

          Dean glances at the shop next to him, it's the dog grooming salon, and keeps walking, taking another sip of coffee as he thinks.

          He doesn't have any idea what he would even get his teammates that they probably couldn't already get themselves or already didn't have. It's not like he could get them like a new gun or something, at least not on this short notice.

          Roman reads a lot though, doesn't he? Dean's seen him with several different paperbacks more than once, so maybe like a book?

          But what kind of book? He makes a face. Alright, he's graduated from 'should I get them gifts' to, 'ok, maybe I should,' to 'what kind of gifts should I get them?' So apparently he's doing it, this gift thing, maybe. If he can figure out what kind of things to get them.

          He passes by a second hand store that has a bright neon 'open' sign, and turns back, heading inside on instinct more than anything. Maybe he can find something here. It's not like any of the bigger department stores are going to be open, right?

          Besides, maybe he can think about this out of the cold. 

          He wanders in, tossing his now empty coffee cup into one of the garbages next to the door—silently apologizing to the Barista for throwing away her nice message—and looks around, nodding to the cashier who welcomes him.

          The clothes and the shoes he bypasses, but he starts to look down the aisles or knick knacks and miscellaneous things, trying to find anything that strikes his eye at all. There's a whole lot to look at, but not much that interests him, that is, until he reaches an aisle of used books. It might not be best to get Roman a used book, maybe not worth as much, but since he's here?

          He moves past the nonfiction and the self help books, and the romance section which really just is filled with all those weird smutty books that older ladies read, until he finally lands on the fiction. It looks like it's sort of categorized by genre and name, and as Dean scans, he eyes land on a big paperback copy of Lord of the Rings.

          He's heard of that before, at least the movies. It doesn't surprise him in the least that there were books of it. Probably came first now that he thinks about it, most movies do, don't they? He reaches for it and slips it off the shelf, surprised at the size. Was this just one book? He flips it over. No, it looks like it's three books in one. Dean wracks his memory, trying to recall whether or not he's seen Roman reading these before. He doesn't recall, but even so, maybe it would be nice to have a version of them where they're all in one place, in case you don't want to bring all three books somewhere? It doesn't look too beat up, especially on the later pages—Dean can understand not getting to the end of a book in one sitting and having to go back to the beginning several times so you can remember what was happening but then not making it to the end again and having the cycle continue—so it might not be bad. He flips it around, trying to find a price, and after not seeing one, opens the first page. He blinks at the price written in pencil. Seven dollars? Sold.

          Dean tucks the book underneath his arm and goes back to scanning, wondering if he should get Roman more than one book. It crosses his mind though how he probably shouldn't, because then he'd have to get Rollins more than one thing, and he's still stuck on the first part.

          What the hell kind of thing would a person like Rollins like anyway? Dean doesn't know jack shit about healthy eating other than you're supposed to eat fruits and vegetables. He doesn't know if Rollins reads like Roman does, and hell, he can't even really pinpoint any hobbies of Rollins' other than running in the morning, and what the hell could Dean get him that helps him with that? He continues to walk through the aisles. He hasn't even ever been in Rollins' room to figure out if the guy has anything that could even give a hint to what Rollins likes to do.

          Would it be shitty to get him a gift card, tell him, 'Hey, spend it on anything you want.' That would be vastly easier in his opinion, but probably not the most heartfelt in all actuality. ‘Here is money to buy what you want instead of me buying something I’d think you’d want.’

          Another thought pops into Dean's head as his eyes are scanning over various types of glassware squished onto the shelves. Will Rollins think that Dean giving him a gift would be trying to buy his forgiveness?

          Dean frowns. He wouldn't be trying to. He's not even sure he wants Rollins forgiveness, he's still not even that sure he's  _ that _ sorry about what happened.

          A flash of Rollins' bloody nose and black and blue eye pops into his head, and Dean's winces, just a little bit.

          Ok, maybe he's a little sorry.

          That should be good enough, right? 

          Dean sighs, and continues walking.

 

          He’s almost about to abandon all hope when he sees something that looks like a black hardcover book sitting on one of the shelves. Just as a hunch, he reaches for it, wondering why it wasn’t in the book aisle, and flips it open. Oh, it’s not a book. The pages are lined and there’s no writing in it whatsoever as far as Dean can tell, and he almost shrugs and puts it back before he remembers.

          Rollins likes to write strategies and ideas down in notebooks and notepads, right? Maybe that would work? It’s maybe not the most personable gift, but Rollins might use it for work, and honestly, it would get more use and be more practical if that were the case. Dean doesn’t even bother checking the price, just stuffs it underneath his arm and continues walking, figuring that he’s not gonna come up with anything better than this. He checks out quickly, paying cash for both and holding the bag carefully as he leaves the store since it’s starting to snow heavier again, and water and paper don’t mix well.

          He’s probably spent enough time outside as it is, and there isn’t much more to do, so he continues the long way home, seeing that at least the streets have come a little bit more alive. Soft music is playing somewhere, and Dean recognizes the song, whistling along with the tune as he walks.

          A vibration in his pocket startles him a little, and he reaches into his jean pocket with his free hand to fish his phone out. He blinks at the caller ID. 

_           Renee Young _

          It takes a couple of tries with his cold hands, but he eventually swipes the answer button, holding the phone to his ear. “Hello?” He carefully asks, if not a bit wary.

          “Dean?” Renee’s bright voice from the other end asks back, and he nods, like an idiot, before answering.

          “Hi.”

          “Did I catch you at a bad time?” She asks, and he holds the phone closer to his ear as another gust of wind hits him.

          “No, just walking,” he replies.

          “In this weather?” Renee asks back, laughing a little.

          “Heading back home,” Dean explains. “I went shopping.” He doesn’t know why he tells her that.

          “Oh, buying last minute Christmas gifts?” she jokes, and Dean makes a face.

          “Sort of,” he says, and her laughter stops.

          “Oh." Her tone shifts, sounding more genuinely pleased. "How nice of you!”

          “Yeah,” he replies. He wants to ask her the reason why she called, but thankfully, she answers the question before he asks it.

          “I just called to ask whether or not two o’clock works for tomorrow. I have a couple of things I need to do in the morning.”

          Dean shrugs, not knowing why that matters. “Like I said, I’m free when you are.”

          She laughs. “Oh good!”

          “There’s this coffee place, near downtown,” he says suddenly, not knowing exactly the approximation of where she lives, but guessing she might now. “Small, but makes good stuff.”

          “Ok,” Renee responds easily. "What's the name of it? We could meet there.”

          Dean frowns, checking both ways before crossing the street before the crossing light goes on. It doesn’t matter, there’s nobody down that road anyway. “I….forgot to look,” he admits.

          “That’s ok,” Renee says. “How about we meet at your place? Maybe we can walk there?”

          Little warning bells go off for a moment in Dean’s head about letting someone know where he lives, but they thankfully quiet a little when he’s reminded that Renee knows about who and what he is anyway. Probably better than most non-Agents in the business, being Triple H’s Secretary and all.

          “Ok, we can do that.” He nods.

          “Sounds great.” Dean can hear the smile in Renee’s voice, and for some reason, it makes his mouth twitch a little.

          “See you tomorrow then,” he says.

          “See you tomorrow,” she agrees. “Oh, and Dean?”

          Dean blinks. “Yeah?”

          “Merry Christmas.”

          “....Merry Christmas, Renee.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pretty Roman-centric, because I feel we don't get a lot of him usually, and I felt that his point of view at this point in the story was something that I wanted to explore. We got less of Dean and even less of Seth, but I feel like their parts are more building towards the future of the story, especially Dean's.
> 
> Also, I've never been to a Catholic Mass in my life, all I have to go on are accounts from my mother and like media and stuff and my own experiences with religion, so like that's all I got lol.


End file.
